synopsis: Adrian has spent his entire life thinking he's a Beta. Then one traumatic mission turns his life upside-down, and he realizes he might finally get to have the one thing he's always wanted: you.
tags/warnings: 18+ MDNI, omegaverse dynamics (talk about mates, heats/ruts, etc), alpha!Adrian, omega!reader, medic!reader, 11th street kids is a pack, mission gone wrong, reader injury (bullet wounds), desperate and needy and protective Adrian just the way I like him, (I have never written omegaverse fic before be nice to me lmao)
word count: 5k
notes: It is finally here thank you so much for your patience I know I have been teasing this for weeks lmao I am anticipating around seven parts to this one!! MAJOR thank you to @embeanwrites and @snowyathena for the beta read and all their help brainstorming and editing <3
Masterlist | part one | part two | part three | part four | part five
The 11th Street Kids are not your typical pack.
Chris and Emilia, two bonded Alphas that butt heads as much as they care about one another. Ads, John, and Adrian, three Betas who gladly follow their lead, even when things get messy. And you.
Black ops work tends to attract a particular type—Alphas and Betas. You’re a bit of an odd one out as an Omega, but you’ve determinedly proven yourself capable of the work time and time again. Still, you’ve never actually been out in the field. You’re a medic, and you stay behind at headquarters, ready to help when the team gets back from missions, fixing Emilia’s shoddy emergency-med work that keeps them alive en-route to you.
“That is not how you pack a fucking bullet wound, Emilia,” you have said countless times. Or “Jesus Christ, how many times, Adrian, have I told you to leave the knife in after you get stabbed?” Or “What kind of drug did you accidentally inhale? If I was in the field with you, maybe I would have seen it and been able to tell—”
And you are itching to get out there and help. You’ve been begging for months. Even if all you do is stay in the van with John, you can do more, be there for the team more effectively, if you are out there in the field with them instead of waiting at the Checkmate office or whatever temporary HQ has been set up for long-distance missions.
Still, Chris and Emilia have been reluctant to let you—as the only Omega of the group, they tend to baby you, maybe a bit too much. But you’ve been there through it all—the butterflies, the alternate universes, standing on the sidelines as quiet, caring support for the others.
Being a good friend to Chris when he desperately needed one, after he got out of prison. Reminding John of his value when he’s feeling unimportant. Helping nurse Em back to health after Coverdale Ranch. Standing by Ads when her relationship with Keeya was falling to pieces. Comforting Adrian when Chris made the dumbass decision to fuck off to Nazi land. Welcoming Fleury, Bordeaux, and Judomaster into the pack with open arms and managing everyone’s emotions as the group adjusted to the three new Betas added into the mix.
But you’re more than a caretaker, and you’re ready to prove it.
“I am not a child,” you insist when Chris tries to bench you, yet again. “I have just as much training as the rest of you. I can handle a gun. I can handle myself. I am a professional, and I am qualified.”
“We need you here.”
“John gets to go with you all the time!” you cry. “He might be a Beta, but he’s a bigger pussy than I am!”
“Hey!” John protests.
“Sorry,” you mutter, not sounding at all sorry.
“She deserves to go,” Adrian cuts in, from a few desks away. “She’s worked just as hard on this as the rest of us. You can’t keep treating her like glass because she’s an Omega. I know you have this weird Alpha need to like, take care of her or whatever, but she’s also more than capable of taking care of herself. She takes care of the rest of us all the time.”
You’re grateful to have someone on your side. Adrian is your best friend, and he never lets anyone give you shit for your designation. You’d asked him about it once, and he’d said something vague about his shitty Alpha brother and not wanting to be like him.
If he was an Alpha, he’d be the perfect one, in your eyes. He never gave a shit about social convention, he understood you better than maybe anyone else in the world. You catch yourself wishing some days that things were different.
Emilia sighs. “It’s not that. You know we respect you. You also know that your designation makes you a target.”
“So we’ll keep an eye on her,” Adrian says. “She’s not going to go out there alone. If we’re watching her back, and you know we will be—”
“Fine!” Chris says, giving in. “You can come on the mission tomorrow. But Adrian stays with you the whole time.”
“Gladly,” Adrian agrees.
“Thank you,” you say delightedly. You hug Adrian, and he laughs.
He hates it when anyone else touches him, but—he’s never minded it from you. You smell nice. He takes the opportunity as you wrap your arms around him to quietly tuck his head into your neck and inhale, right where your comforting scent is the strongest. He hopes it lingers, for the rest of the day. On his clothes, on his skin, in his hair.
Adrian might be a little bit in love with you. A lot a bit in love with you, actually. But that doesn’t matter. He’s never had a shot with you anyway. He’s not an Alpha, he can’t give you what you need.
But he can give you this. He can watch your back so you have the chance to go out in the field with the rest of the pack, like you’ve always wanted.
“No problem,” he says, trying his best to pretend that everything is okay. That it doesn’t kill him a little bit inside when you let go, step back, move back to your desk.
He watches you and swallows hard, and tries really, really hard not to be consumed with irrational jealousy.
Jealous of whatever Alpha, one day, will get to keep you to himself.
Jealous of his alternate self, who he spends every day trying not to think about. Who you will never meet, thank god, because—he was an Alpha. And he would have been able to be with you, in a way Adrian never can be. Maybe—maybe he was. He had a mark. Right there, high on his neck. Adrian hadn’t been able to stop looking at it, couldn’t help but wonder. The question had been on the tip of his tongue the entire night, but he kept deflecting—talking about Pokemon and cloud-men and shag carpeting, skirting around the question he really wanted to ask, because he was too afraid. Because if it was you—if the only thing keeping him from you is his fucking designation—
He snaps himself out of the thought. It’s never happening, not for him. All he can do is take advantage of the time he has with you now, before some asshole Alpha steals you away to another pack. So he pastes on a smile, saunters up behind you, and taps you playfully on the shoulder.
“Better go practice your aim,” he teases. “Make sure you’re 100% field ready—”
“Oh, fuck you,” you laugh, but you start walking in the direction of the weapons room anyway. “Come with me?”
He follows you with a smile on his face. He always will.
Everything goes sideways fast. Your informant fucked you all over. It’s an ambush.
Adrian has heard pained or panicked shouts from everyone—Chris, Harcourt, Ads, Economos. He ignores them all, because he was given a prerogative from his Alphas. To protect you.
“Stay here,” he tells you, hands on your shoulders, pushing you behind him, away from the danger. “Stay here, stay low, stay behind me. Do you hear me?” You nod, eyes wide as you look up into his visor.
“Okay,” you agree, cocking your gun. “I’ll do what I can from a distance—”
“No, don’t waste your ammo,” Adrian says. He hands you his guns, instead, and draws his machete. “In case—if they get closer, you need to defen—”
“I got it,” you assure him, accepting the weapons. “Go, Ade, I’ll be okay.”
So he stays focused, takes out as many attackers as he can, slashes out with his machete, chopping off limbs, sending blood spraying through the air while you shoot from higher ground, just behind him. He doesn’t stray far, keeping you in earshot, no more than a quick sprint out of reach.
There’s some part of him that feels sickly satisfied, like he always does, as the bodies hit the ground. There are dozens of them. Far too many. Whoever sent them here is going to die, he decides. Whoever put his pack at risk like this, whoever put you at risk like this.
Even still, this is what he’s good at. The killing. It’s what he enjoys. He’s smiling under his Vigilante mask as he looks at one of the last assholes in his vicinity and slashes out. The guy gets off a couple shots, but they fly wide, missing him. Adrian laughs as he shoves his blade through the guy’s neck.
Adrian looks back at you to check in, to crack a joke about how of course your first field mission goes right off the rails, and—you’re not where you’re supposed to be. You’re not where he left you. His eyes dart around frantically until they land on you, and he breathes a sigh of relief, but the feeling only lasts a moment. You look at him, in that split second, frozen with shock.
Then he sees the blood soaking through your uniform. He watches you go pale, a hand pressed a wound he’s too far away to see clearly, and you hit the ground. His blood runs cold. He can smell your blood on the air—your scent, familiar, but also wrong. Tinged salty and metallic, thick, like he can taste it on his tongue.
The transformation happens in an instant.
Adrian goes fucking ballistic.
Something takes over him. Something vicious, and aggressive, and panicked, and he yells your name, but you don’t answer him. Two more people try to corner Adrian, and he doesn’t even bother with a weapon. He just snaps their necks. Then he races to you, bolts as fast as he can, his heart pounding harder than it ever has.
His vision is already tinged red by the Vigilante visor, but it goes even redder with rage when he sees you slumped on the ground, lifeless. His knees hit the ground beside you, and he rips his mask off. It feels hard to breathe in it, suddenly, as he looks down at you, strangled by the strongest fear he’s ever felt. His hands reach frantically for your face, and he says your name over and over again, interspersed with pleas, as he tugs you into his lap.
No, he thinks, he shouldn’t be moving you. He needs a medic, he needs you, but—he curses. Goddamnit, fuck, what would you tell him to do, what have you trained him to do when the others get shot—
“Put pressure on it,” he tells himself out loud, but even as he does it, his voice is shaking, his hands are shaking, because he never, ever, thought he would have to use this knowledge on you. “God, please, wake up, look at me, please—”
“Adrian,” says a voice behind him, and he turns and bares his teeth, brandishing his machete defensively.
“It’s me!” Emilia says, holding her hands up. “It’s me!”
Somewhere in the back of his mind, Adrian logically knows—it’s Harcourt. Harcourt isn’t going to hurt you. But even as he lowers his weapon, something feels bad. Wrong. And when she reaches for you, to assess your injuries—
“Don’t fucking touch her,” Adrian snarls, gloved fingers digging into your skin, shielding you from the threat that his body is telling him is right there.
“What?” Emilia says, completely caught off guard.
Adrian turns back to you, tense with fear and worry. His hands press harder against the places you’re bleeding from—your shoulder, your side near your ribs, trying desperately to stop the flow of blood even as it soaks into his gloves. “Come on, wake up, look at me—”
You blink awake only briefly, your eyes unfocused, but you say his name, very softly, and your weak fingers clutch at the buckles on the front of his uniform. The possessive feeling roars back up Adrian’s throat times a thousand, drowning out everything else. All he knows is protect and need and mine.
“They’re all dead,” Chris says behind him, breathless, and Adrian tenses up again without knowing why. “I think John’s arm is fucked up, we need her to set it—” Then Chris’s eyes land on you. “Oh, fuck—she doesn’t look good, we gotta get her out of here—”
Adrian sees Chris’s arms reach for you, and he growls, something deep and primal and uncontrollable. A sound he has never made. A sound he shouldn’t be able to make. Chris freezes, bristles, looks at Adrian.
“What the fuck was that?” Chris says, more confused than angered by the intensity emanating off of Adrian in waves.
Then Chris takes in the whole scene. The way Adrian’s clutch on you is so tight it might leave bruises. The way he hunches over you protectively. The way he snarls when Chris looks at you for a moment too long.
Chris pauses. He inhales. His eyes go wide, and he takes a giant step back.
“Holy fucking shit,” he says. “Adrian—”
“Whoa, what the fuck is going on?” Ads says, confused as hell. John stumbles up behind her, also looking confused, nursing a wound of his own on his arm. They both look worried when they see you unconscious on the ground.
“You smell it?” Chris asks Emilia, and her brow furrows. She sniffs the air, and her mouth falls open.
“Holy shit,” she whispers. “Oh my god. Is he—”
“Ads, I need you to run to the van and get me a tranq dart,” Chris says, voice low. “Now.” She does as he asks without asking any questions.
“Adrian,” Emilia says softly, trying again to approach, even slower, calmer. “I need you to let me look at her injuries. I’m not going to hurt her.” She pauses and thinks, tries to rephrase into the particular words he needs to hear right now. “I’m not going to take her from you.”
But it’s no use. He’s too far gone for logic. When Emilia reaches forward, he panics.
“No,” Adrian says desperately. “No, no—she’s mine—”
His eyes are wild, unfocused, filled with such animal fear and rage and need that it’s clouding every other feeling. He’s vibrating, shaking, breathing hot and heavy, on the verge of falling over entirely into animal instinct, of going completely feral.
“Please, let me help—” Emilia says, trying to gentle her voice and approach again slowly, and Adrian snaps.
“Get the fuck away from her!” he shouts. “Don’t—”
As soon as Ads returns and hands Chris the tranquilizer gun, he shoots. The dart hits Adrian right in the neck, and everything goes dark.
When you wake up, blinking blearily, Adebayo’s face comes into your field of vision. When you turn your head to the side, Emilia is sitting at your bedside, holding your hand.
“Hey,” she says, sounding a little relieved. “We were worried about you.”
“What—”
“You got shot. Like, three times,” Emilia says. You look around. You’re in the Checkmate infirmary, hooked up to a couple IVs. Blood, some other fluids. There are a few dull aches in your side, your shoulder, but they don’t hurt nearly as bad as they should. They must have given you the good painkillers.
Your brain still feels a little foggy, though. You try to remember what happened, and it comes back in snapshots. The ambush. The pain. Adrian shouting for you.
Clarity washes over you in an instant, and you sit up in bed, wincing as the movement irritates your injuries in a way even the painkillers can’t mask. “Fuck—”
“What is it, what do you need?” Emilia asks. “Stay down, I’ll get it—”
“Adrian,” you say. You don’t know why, but something inside you wants him, right now, more than anything or anyone else. “Where is Adrian? He was—”
Emilia and Adebayo exchange a look. You glance between them worriedly.
“Is he okay?” you ask, almost afraid to hear the answer, your heart sinking. You got hurt, you weren’t there to take care of him if he got hurt.
“He’s going to be,” Emilia says. “He’s…sick.”
You frown, unimpressed. “Bullshit. Stop fucking lying to my face, please. Adrian has a healing factor. He doesn’t get sick.”
Adebayo sighs. “She’s gonna find out eventually, Em. There’s no point.”
“Find out what?” you demand, starting to get panicky. “If there’s something wrong with Adrian, I want to know, and I want to know now. He’s my best friend, if something happened to him—it’s my fucking job to take care of the pack, and he—”
“While you were unconscious,” Emilia says, “something…unexpected happened.”
“Stop being cryptic and just fucking tell me.”
“Adrian presented,” Ads interrupts, ripping the bandaid off. You jerk back from her like you’ve been slapped.
“Adrian…presented?” you say slowly, your heart pounding against your chest, a pit of dread forming in your stomach. “What do you—”
“He’s spent his entire life thinking he’s a Beta,” Emilia says. “Hell. We all thought he was a Beta.”
“What do you mean? He’s not?”
“Not anymore,” Ads says. “He’s an Alpha.”
You look between the two women in front of you again and let the information sink in. You lay back against the pillows slowly, fidgeting with the edge of the bedsheet nervously. Because this is the kind of thing that could change everything. And the fact that they’re so reluctant to tell you the whole story tells you that it already has.
“Adrian is an Alpha,” you repeat, your voice barely more than a whisper.
“John and I looked into it. Delayed presentation affects less than 1% of the population,” Adebayo continues. “It’s incredibly rare. Usually triggered by the presence of a compatible genetic mate, or a traumatic circumstance.”
Compatible genetic mate. Traumatic circumstance.
“Traumatic circumstance,” you say, a little frantic. “Did he—is he hurt—”
“He’s not hurt,” Emilia says. “All of us got a little banged up. You got the worst of it. When it was over, by the time we got to you, he was freaking the fuck out, radiating Alpha pheromones in waves like I have never seen.”
“You’re telling me Adrian’s life changed overnight because I got shot? Not because of his own traumatic injury, but because of mine?”
The girls are quiet.
“It’s probably more complicated than that,” Ads says softly. “It might be…a little bit of the other thing, too. That’s what me and John are theorizing, anyway. He said—while you were unconscious, he said—you were his.”
A compatible genetic mate. You swallow as you absorb the implication of her words.
“Is he?” you ask, afraid to raise your voice. Afraid to hope. To make it real. “Is he mine, Em?”
“Listen—” Emilia starts.
“Is he mine, Em?” you repeat, your throat tight. “Is Adrian my Alpha?”
Emilia stares at you.
“I think so,” she says softly. “That’s what triggered it. You were hurt, and you’re his, and something inside him recognized that you needed him. He was—he was a mess. He probably still is. When you got hurt, if Chris wasn’t there to keep him in check, bring him back from the brink, he might have gone feral. As it is, we had to tranquilize him so I could treat your injuries. He wouldn’t let either of us get anywhere near you.”
You’re quiet for a minute, feeling strangely guilty. That you’re the cause of all this trouble, throwing the pack dynamics out of whack. But there’s no going back, now, and there’s some part of you that hopes—maybe this is a good thing. Maybe this is the best thing. Because haven’t you thought a million times that you’d wished Adrian was an Alpha? That he could be yours?
If Adrian is yours, though—why isn’t he here? Does he not want you in return? But then you think—if Adrian just presented, for the first time—
“He’s in rut, isn’t he?” you whisper worriedly.
“He is,” Emilia says hesitantly, like she doesn’t want to admit it.
It hurts you, a terrible pang in your stomach, to think about Adrian suffering, confused, alone.
“I want to see him.”
“You are in no condition,” Emilia says, “to be near an Alpha going through his first ever rut. Adrian needs time to adjust to his new reality. Introducing an Omega into the equation when he’s already volatile is not a good idea. And you are hurt. You need to heal.”
“He needs me,” you say, your throat tight. You think you might cry. “If it’s true, if he’s mine. I need to be there for him.”
“Chris is with him,” Ads says, reaching for your hand and squeezing. “Adrian will be okay, but—he’s wild and unpredictable right now. You got shot. Multiple times. If you went over there, and he ended up hurting you worse, imagine how guilty he would feel.”
“He would never hurt me,” you say, and you know, in your heart, that it’s true.
“You can believe that all you want. I’m not willing to risk it. After he’s…over the hill,” Emilia says, “then you can see him.”
It’s firm. It’s final. And—she is your pack Alpha. What she says goes.
“Can I at least talk to him?” you ask, quiet and nervous. “Please?”
“Let me talk to Chris,” Emilia says. “See how he’s doing. And then maybe we can arrange that. For now, you focus on getting better. You scared the shit out of us. All of us. So let us take care of you, okay?”
You nod, and she squeezes your hand. But you bite your lip and think about how the one person who you really wish was here to take care of you is the one you’re not allowed to see right now.
When Adrian wakes up, he’s sweating buckets, half-naked, strapped down to a mattress in…he looks around. Chris’s old trailer? There’s a sharp, stabbing pain in his gut, and his head is pounding, and god, why is everything so bright and loud?
“What the fuck,” he pants.
“You’re awake,” Chris says. “Good. Sorry I had to tranq you, bro, but you were acting a little crazy.”
“You—what?” Adrian says, bewildered, still a little out of it, trying to blink away the haze of whatever Chris apparently drugged him with.
Then, in a flash of clarity, he remembers what happened. He remembers you, bleeding out in his arms, and the pain in his gut intensifies tenfold, and just the thought of you makes him crazy with want. He needs you. He doesn’t know why, but he does. Instantly, he starts pulling at the restraints.
“Where is she Chris get me the fuck out of here I am not fucking around I will fucking kill you I need her is she hurt—”
“Calm down,” Chris says in his Alpha command voice. Then he remembers it won’t work now. He softens his voice and tries again. “Hey, calm down, Adrian. She’s okay. I promise you, she’s okay.”
Adrian looks at him, still squirming, but present enough to be puzzled, because Chris’s command did not do a damn thing. And a little bit pissed, because he hates it when his best friend uses his Alpha voice on him, like he’s a fucking kindergartender.
“Where is she?” Adrian repeats, low and growling, a command of his own, fueled by the extra power of his recent presentation, the lingering feral energy he can’t contain, and—it works. It shouldn’t, but it works.
“She’s with Emilia and Ads, at her apartment,” Chris says, the words spilling out of him like he can’t stop them. His eyes are wide, his mouth dangling open. “Did you just fucking—use your Alpha voice on me?”
Adrian pauses tugging at his restraints to look at Chris like he’s insane. Because he is. “Use my what? I—dude, why the fuck am I tied to the bed? Why did you bring me here?”
“Because you’re in rut,” Chris snaps. “And I don’t trust you not to go chasing after her. You are out of control right now. And I brought you here because I figured you wouldn’t want your mom around for this.”
Adrian flushes a furious red color. “I am not in rut. I’m a Beta. You know I am.”
“I thought I did,” Chris says. “I believe you thought that too. And then yesterday happened. And you are in rut, and you are an Alpha.”
“I’m not a fucking Alpha!”
“It happens,” Chris says. “People present late in life.”
“I am thirty-four! I would know—”
But even as he says it, he cuts himself off. Because he remembers—his alternate self was an Alpha. So maybe, just maybe, he is too. He just didn’t know.
And selfishly, he thinks…maybe, just maybe, this is his chance. To have you. To love you, the way he’s always wanted.
“You’ve always been a late bloomer, Thimble.”
“Oh, fuck you,” Adrian says, but he swallows roughly. At least, he tries to. His mouth is too dry. “Can you fucking untie me please? God, I’m so fucking thirsty. And itchy, and uncomfortable, and horny, Jesus Christ—”
“Yeah,” Chris says. “Because you’re in rut, Adrian. Your first one. Historically, the worst one you will ever experience. So if I untie you, you have to promise me that you will not run after her. I will tranquilize you again. I know you want her. Hell, she probably wants you. But she’s hurt. She’s in no shape to help you through this.”
“You said she was okay,” Adrian says, panicky. “How—how bad is it?” His breath feels short, his hands are shaking. A terrible, awful guilt sinks in his stomach, adding to the pile of a dozen other terrible sensations he’s feeling right now. “It’s—it’s my fault, I was supposed to protect her. I convinced you to let her go on the mission in the first place. Fuck, Chris, is she okay I need her please—”
“Fuck,” Chris mutters. “I wanted you to be in better shape before—but—goddamnit.” He pulls out his phone and dials while Adrian practically hyperventilates in front of him, trying desperately to yank himself out of the ties holding him down. He tries to bite at the ropes with his teeth, the muscles in his neck straining, but he can’t reach them.
“Emilia,” Chris says. “Put her on the phone.” A pause. “Yeah. I know we said we were gonna wait. But he’s freaking the fuck out. He needs to talk to her.”
“Please,” Adrian says. He tries to get up, but he’s still tied down. “Please, please, I need—”
Chris puts the phone on speaker.
“Adrian?” Your voice rings through the room, and Adrian whimpers audibly at the sound. He closes his eyes and throws his head back roughly against the pillows, trying to take a few settling breaths. You’re alive. You’re well enough to talk to him, at least.
It should make him feel better, but it sends another bolt of agony through him. God, he’s so fucking hard. He wants you so bad. He wants to scent you, he wants to fuck you, he wants, he wants, he wants.
“If I untie you, are you gonna flip?” Chris asks him. Adrian takes a deep breath.
“No,” he says, chest heaving. “Please, just let me talk to her, Chris. Please.”
“You have him tied up?” you cry. “He’s not a fucking animal, Chris!”
“He was borderline,” Chris says seriously. “You were unconscious. You didn’t see how close to feral he got.”
“Untie him,” you demand, and Adrian’s heart skips a beat, hearing you so fiercely defending him.
Chris cuts the ropes, and Adrian instantly reaches for the phone.
“No funny business,” Chris orders, holding it just out of reach, and Adrian starts begging.
“Please give me the phone please let me talk to her please Chris I promise I won’t do anything I just need to talk to her—”
Chris tosses him the phone. Adrian snatches it out of the air, takes the call off speaker, and brings it right up to his ear. When he says your name, it’s shaky, nervous, but also a little bit relieved.
“Adrian,” you say, and half the tension leaves his body, just hearing you say his name, all soft and concerned. Then it roars back as another bolt of pain shoots through him, because—god, he wants you so bad, and he can’t have you right now. A pained noise escapes him, and you must hear it, because you ask worriedly, “Talk to me, Adrian, are you okay?”
“Am I—” He cuts himself off and laughs humorlessly, hissing through the pain. “Am I okay? You—you got shot. I saw you go down, you were—you were bleeding out in my arms. Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” you assure him. “All patched up, at least. It hurts like a bitch. But I can take painkillers for that. You…you can’t. If what they’re saying is true. Are you really…”
Adrian rubs a hand over his face, wiping the sweat from his brow. God, he’s so hot, but even as he thinks it, he shivers.
“I don’t know what’s happening,” he says. His voice is hoarse, and he feels like he might cry, he’s so overwhelmed. “It hurts.”
“What’s happening is your body wants you to find something to knot and breed,” Chris says bluntly. “So your sex drive is through the roof. For the next four days, at least, you’re going to be an irritable, horny asshole, and probably feel generally like shit. It’s gonna suck ass, because you don’t have an Omega or a bonded partner to help you through it. Headaches, feverish, dehydrated, oversensitive. This is basic high school sex ed, dude, you should know this.”
“I never paid attention to any of that Alpha shit, because I thought it didn’t apply to me,” Adrian says hoarsely. “How—why is this happening?”
“It’s my fault,” you say, your voice soft and regretful.
“No,” Adrian says, because he hates the thought that you’re blaming yourself for this. “It’s not your fault.”
“It is,” you say, sniffling, and Adrian thinks you might be crying. It breaks his heart. “I’m so sorry. Ads said—she said that late presentation can be triggered by compatible genetic mates and traumatic events, and I got hurt, and it was just—both, at the same time—”
“Mates?” Adrian croaks. “Are you saying—”
But before he even asks, he knows. He remembers the way he felt, holding you in his arms. He feels it again now, his lungs constricting, knuckles going white, pupils dilating as a wave of it washes over him. Possession. Want. Need.
been thinking about the differences between hoodie & brian ... ooogghhh..
Brian is maybe one of the most confident people you'll ever meet. He's sure of himself in every way.
He walks with his head up, and he has no reservations about showing off a little. Parades you around and shows you off when he can, with the obvious reservations. He's not necessarily ashamed of the work he does with Slenderman and Tim, but he doesn't brag.
When he first met the Operator, his brain didn't take as kindly to his presence. That's the reason Hoodie split off.
They could not be more different.
Your first encounter with Hoodie could hardly be classified as an encounter.
You had a late walk home. By the time you got into your house, it was too late to notice him following from the other side of the street.
He watched you from the cracks between your split up blinds the rest of the night. Messily bleached t-shirt trapping the heat of his heavy breathing, softly palming himself as he watched you get ready for bed.
An intrinsic attraction, worked deep into his neurons through his attachment to your boyfriend. Him, technically- so it isn't wrong. That's the excuse he gave himself for lurking around your house every chance he got, returning to the front door before Brian could really snap back.
You aren't an idiot, of course, so you noticed him eventually. Noticed the "mask" and hoodie you've seen in every bloody laundry load peeping from your blinds. The rest of the assumptions came naturally- but you weren't going to stop Brian's shy counterpart from having some fun.
Hoodie who watches you silently for weeks. Seeing the life you've built with Brian and quietly seething. He wanted to approach you. He wanted to see you, touch you, but even the thought burned holes in his gloves.
Hoodie who lurks quietly when you touch yourself at night. He has to pull away for once before he finishes untouched in his pants. Just watching you change made a cold sweat run down his face. You put on a show for him every time, pretending not to know. And it works.
You will have to be the first to initiate contact. Until then, you get to play with your "stalker" as much as you want.
Thomas who hand feeds you when you refuse to eat pieces of your friends.
Who picks only the juiciest, most succulent parts to give to you.
Who holds the tender bites of meat between thick, calloused fingers and presses them between your lips with gentle yet firm pressure. Who holds your nose to make you swallow them down. Who wipes away your tears with clumsy, earnest attention.
He’s taking care of you, he thinks joyously, he’s providing!
His love for you tastes like iron and drips from every morsel, and you secretly wonder if maybe you’re starting to crave it.
I've been trying to make my own AO3 skin and I'm relatively happy with it but does anyone know how I change the color of the gray box? I used Reversi's CSS as a base and just changed the colors I've been reading through it and I can't find which one changes the color of that box
Just learned what fannon hoodie is while looking through Pinterest💀 HES PUSHING 30 WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO MY COCKY MASTER MANIPULATER he needs more love hes so peak (and more fics ive bled AO3 dry)
Can we as a Society start being more open about enjoying the omegaverse because don't lie we YES WE do be reading that shit but trying to find a fic that is actually well written either about X reader or a ship pairing is genuinely harder than I am when I find one it's a lot more common in webcomics or manwas (I think that's how you spell it?) Than fanfiction or at least in my experience but it just feels like genuinely no one writes about it😮💨
summary: a classified project butterfly assignment brings you back to evergreen and back into the life of christopher smith, the older brother who once protected you and is now peacemaker. old memories resurface, secrets unravel, and a vigilante decides he does not trust you at all.
warnings: no use of y/n, f!reader, A.R.G.U.S. agent!reader, chris has emotions, grief and healing, chris being an older brother, soft angst or maybe emotional angst, enemies to lover, slow-burn
wc: ~4.8k
a/n: i haven’t written fanfic in forever, so thank you for bearing with me. this will be a multi-chapter fic, updates may be a little slow due to work. if i missed any warnings, please let me know. thanks for reading!
masterlist ♡ series masterlist ♡ part two
Chapter One: The Weight of What Was
The air in Evergreen, Washington, had a weight you hadn’t felt in a decade. It wasn’t just the familiar, oppressive dampness of the Pacific Northwest, a heavy blanket woven from the scent of pine needles, wet asphalt, and the rich, dark soil that clung to everything. It was the weight of memory, of a life stolen, of a lie that had festered for ten years. As the Uber pulled away from the curb, its red taillights bleeding into the misty twilight, you were left alone on the sidewalk with a single, scuffed suitcase and the suffocating presence of your own past.
Just breathe, you told yourself, the command a familiar mantra from years of training. It’s just a house. Just a town. But it wasn’t, and you knew it. Every gust of wind seemed to whisper your name, every drop of rain a tiny accusation. You clutched the cold plastic handle of your luggage, the flimsy anchor in a churning sea of memories, and forced yourself to look.
The house stood before you, a monument to the girl you used to be. The white paint, once pristine, was now surrendering to the relentless Washington damp, peeling back in thin, leprous strips to reveal the weathered gray wood beneath. It looked tired, you thought. Beaten down. You knew the feeling. But the decay of the house couldn’t touch the vibrant, defiant life of your mother’s garden. Even in the muted light of the overcast sky, the deep greens of the ferns, the heavy-headed hydrangeas, and the stubborn purple of the lavender bushes seemed to glow with an inner light. The combined fragrance was a physical blow, a scent so deeply embedded in your childhood that for a dizzying moment, you were twelve again, hiding amongst the fragrant leaves, the sound of Chris’s laughter echoing as he searched for you.
Taking a deep, steadying breath that did little to calm the frantic fluttering in your chest, you began the long walk up the driveway. Each step was a negotiation with ghosts. There was the spot where Chris had taught you to ride a bike, your scraped knees a badge of honor. There was the ancient oak tree with the broken branch from which you’d both fallen, landing in a heap of bruised limbs and breathless laughter. This wasn’t just a house; it was a graveyard of moments, and you were trespassing.
You dragged your luggage up the familiar wooden steps of the porch. Each creak of the boards was a note in a forgotten song, a melody of a life you had been forced to abandon. Before your knuckles could even graze the door, it swung inward.
Your mother stood there, her face a roadmap of the years you’d missed. The lines around her eyes were deeper, her hair threaded with more silver than you remembered, but her eyes… her eyes were the same. Warm, brown, and already glistening with a mixture of joy and a deep, familiar pain that mirrored your own. A small, tight, and utterly inadequate smile was all you could manage before she pulled you into an embrace that was both suffocating and life-affirming, her familiar scent of vanilla and laundry soap a sensory anchor to a life you no longer led.
“Oh, sweetie,” she murmured into your hair, her voice thick with unshed tears. “You’re home. You’re finally home.”
Over her shoulder, you saw your father. He stood in the hallway, his reading glasses perched on the end of his nose, a well-worn paperback still in one hand. He looked older, more stooped, but his smile was the same gentle, reassuring curve you remembered. He joined the hug, his large, calloused hands patting your back with a gentle rhythm that spoke of unspoken relief and a decade of sleepless nights. For the first time in ten years, the hollow space in your chest, the one you’d filled with training, with missions, with a cold, hard competence, felt a little less empty. It felt like home.
“Let me look at you,” your mother said, pulling back to cup your face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the faint scar above your eyebrow you’d gotten. Her brow furrowed with a concern you hadn’t allowed anyone to show you in years. “You’re so thin. Are they feeding you, wherever it is you’ve been?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” you said, your voice hoarse. “Just… tired.”
“Of course, you are. That long flight,” your father said, his voice a comforting baritone. He took your suitcase, his grip firm. “I’ll take this up. Your room is just how you left it.”
Of course, it is, you thought with a pang of something that felt dangerously like grief. A museum to a dead girl.
You followed your mother not into the living room, but into the heart of the house: the kitchen. The air was warm, thick with the smell of roasting chicken and baked apples. It was a scent of pure, uncomplicated love, and it made your throat tighten. The hallway you passed through was a gallery of your past, a curated collection of moments frozen in time. There you were, a gap-toothed seven-year-old on your first day of school. There you were again, a lanky, awkward teenager in a graduation gown, beaming with a naive confidence that now seemed almost cruel.
And then you saw it. The photo. It was in a simple silver frame, placed prominently on the hall table. It was from a summer barbecue, long before the night that shattered everything. You were twelve, your skin kissed a deep, sunburnt red, and a twenty-three-year-old Christopher Smith was grinning behind you, holding up two fingers in the classic “bunny ears” pose.
Chris. You had an older brother once, a ghost in a soldier’s uniform who had died in some faraway desert before you could form any real memories of him. Chris had stepped into that void. He wasn’t just a family friend; he was your brother, your protector, the one who taught you how to ride a bike and how to stand up to bullies. He was everything. And his father, Auggie Smith, had taken him from you, had taken everything from you.
You reached out, your fingers trembling slightly as they brushed against the cool glass of the frame. For ten years, you had mourned this smiling boy. For ten years, you had carried the crushing weight of a lie, the town’s whispers branding you a killer. And now… now he was alive. A ghost in a ridiculous helmet. The cognitive dissonance was a physical thing, a dizzying vertigo that made you grip the edge of the table for support.
“I never put that one away,” your mother said softly from the kitchen doorway. “It felt wrong to.”
You tore your eyes away from the photo, the memory of that night—of the shouting, of the blood, of Auggie’s monstrous face twisting in a lie as he pointed a finger at you—threatening to pull you under. You nodded, unable to speak, and followed her into the kitchen.
She was pulling a bubbling, golden-crusted chicken pot pie from the oven. Your father was already at the table, a hopeful, expectant look on his face. They were trying so hard to pretend this was normal, that their long-lost daughter hadn’t just reappeared after a decade with the haunted eyes of a soldier.
“So,” your father started, clearing his throat as your mother set the pie on the table. “A.R.G.U.S. That’s… that’s serious business.”
“It’s a job,” you said, sitting down, the worn wood of the chair familiar beneath you.
“Your mother tells me it’s what brought you back to Evergreen,” he continued, his gaze steady. “Anything to do with that… that ‘Peacemaker’ fellow we’ve been seeing on the news? He’s from around here, you know.”
Your blood ran cold. You kept your face a perfect, placid mask, a skill honed over years of interrogation and infiltration. “The mission is classified, Dad.”
“Of course, of course,” he said quickly, but you saw the flicker of hurt in his eyes. You were shutting them out, and it was killing them. It was killing you.
Your mother served the pie, the silence thick with unspoken questions. You ate, the familiar, comforting taste a stark contrast to the turmoil in your gut. You were a stranger at your own family table.
“We missed you, sweetie,” your mother said finally, her voice quiet. “Every day.”
“I missed you, too,” you whispered, and it was the truest thing you had said since you’d arrived.
The meal finished in a haze of small talk and carefully avoided topics. The elephant in the room—the reason you’d left, the boy in the photograph, the monster who lived just a few miles away—sat with you at the table, a silent, unwelcome guest. An hour later, your phone buzzed with a coded message. A location. A time. It was time.
“I have to go,” you said, standing abruptly. The disappointment on your parents’ faces was a fresh wound, but they simply nodded. They understood, or at least, they tried to.
“Be safe,” your father said, his voice thick with a worry he couldn’t voice.
Too late for that, you thought, grabbing your jacket. You were walking back into the fire that had forged you, and you knew, with a chilling certainty, that this time, you might not make it out alive.
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Fennel Fields hadn’t changed. The family restaurant, a staple of your teenage years, still smelled perpetually of stale beer and fried onions. The vinyl on the booth seats was still cracked in the same familiar patterns, and the low murmur of the other patrons was a mix of local gossip and tired complaints about the relentless drizzle. It was aggressively, painfully normal, and you, with your concealed weapon and your head full of alien parasites, had never felt more out of place.
You slid into the corner booth, your senses on high alert. This was your new team. A collection of misfits Waller had cobbled together. A real black ops dream team, you thought with a surge of professional cynicism. The best of the best. Or, more likely, the only people she could afford. Or blackmail.
Clemson Murn, the team’s grim-faced leader, sat with his back to the wall, a mountain of a man who seemed to absorb the light around him. He gave you a curt, assessing nod, his eyes lingering on you for a moment too long. He was reading you, you realized. Looking for weaknesses. Across from him, Emilia Harcourt nursed a glass of water like it was a fine whiskey, her posture radiating a coiled tension that spoke of a life lived on the edge. Her gaze swept over you, sharp and dismissive. She thinks I’m a liability, you realized. The local girl with baggage. The wild card. I’ll have to prove her wrong.
Next to her, John Economos was a bundle of nervous energy, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm on the sticky tabletop, his eyes darting around the room as if expecting an attack at any moment. He looked like a man who had seen too much and was now permanently braced for impact. The final member of the group, a younger woman with kind eyes and an ill-fitting jacket, offered a small, hesitant smile. “I’m Leota Adebayo,” she whispered, as if afraid to disturb the fragile peace. “It’s… it’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” you replied, your voice more steady than you felt. You took a slow, deliberate breath, cataloging the exits, the other patrons, the layout of the room. Old habits. Or maybe, just survival.
As you settled in, your eyes were drawn to a figure moving between the tables. A busboy, tall and lean, was clearing plates with a jerky, almost surgical precision. He moved with a singular focus, his brow furrowed in concentration as he scraped leftover fries into a plastic tub. There was an odd intensity to him, a disconnect between the mundane task and the fierce concentration he applied to it. And then he turned, a stray lock of brown hair falling across his forehead, and you saw his face. Oh. He’s cute, the thought was immediate and unexpected, a flicker of warmth in the cold, professional mindset you’d adopted. Cute in a twitchy, high-strung way. Like a border collie that hasn’t been walked. But that smile… Even in repose, the corners of his mouth seemed to be fighting an upward battle.
Just then, the bell above the restaurant door jingled, and all your carefully constructed professional detachment shattered. Chris walked in. He was dressed in his full, ridiculous Peacemaker costume, and every head in the restaurant turned to stare. He swaggered over to the table, a cocky grin on his face that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“What’s up, dickheads?” he announced, sliding in next to you. Your breath caught in your throat. Ten years, and he was right here. The same, yet so different. He smelled of gunpowder and cheap beer. The sheer physical presence of him next to you was overwhelming, a ghost made solid. He glanced at you, his grin faltering for a fraction of a second. Recognition flickered in his eyes, followed by a complicated storm of emotions you couldn’t begin to decipher. He gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, a silent command to wait, and then turned his attention to the table, pointedly ignoring you. The air between you was thick with a decade of unspoken words, of pain and betrayal and a grief you now realized was all for nothing.
Murn, unfazed by the spectacle, cleared his throat. “Now that everyone’s here,” he began, his voice a low rumble that cut through the restaurant’s chatter. “Project Butterfly. The targets are not human. They’re a parasitic alien species that wear our friends and family like meat puppets. They enter a human host, take control, and are indistinguishable from the real person.”
Economos pushed a tablet across the table, showing grainy footage of a person’s face contorting, a grotesque, winged creature emerging from their mouth. Your stomach turned, but your training kicked in. You leaned forward, your eyes narrowed on the screen.
“They favor hosts in positions of power,” Harcourt added, her voice sharp and precise. “Politicians, community leaders. We have intel that there’s a nest here in Evergreen. Our primary mission is to identify and terminate them.”
“Terminate how?” Adebayo asked, her voice a little shaky. “Like, with guns?”
Chris let out a derisive snort. “Duh. What are you gonna do, ask them to leave nicely? They’re fucking body-snatching alien butterflies.”
Your jaw tightened at his tone. You kept your own voice level and professional, addressing Murn. “What’s their durability? Do we have any data on weaknesses? Preferred habitat? Do they leave any kind of energy signature we can track?”
The question hung in the air. Harcourt looked at you with a flicker of respect. Economos started typing furiously. Even Chris shot you a surprised, almost impressed, glance from the corner of his eye. It was a small victory, a tiny assertion that you weren’t the scared little girl who fled this town ten years ago. You were a trained A.R.G.U.S. agent, and you were good at your job.
As Murn began to answer, your eyes drifted across the restaurant and landed on the busboy again. He had paused in his work, his own wide, curious eyes fixed on the bizarre collection of people in your booth. His gaze met Chris’s, and his entire face lit up with a huge, goofy, and utterly unrestrained grin. From across the room, he waved, a frantic, enthusiastic gesture.
Chris glanced over, his expression turning to one of mild annoyance. He nudged you. “Oh, Christ,” he muttered under his breath, just loud enough for you to hear. “I think that’s my friend Gut Chase’s younger brother, Adrian. He has mental issues.”
You watched as Adrian, the busboy, gave one last, beaming smile before turning back to his work, humming a cheerful, off-key tune. You looked from the strange, intense busboy back to the brother you thought you had lost forever, a man now wearing a costume and a hardened mask you didn’t recognize. A cold knot of dread and confusion tightened in your stomach. You had just walked back into the emotional minefield of your past, and it was already more complicated and stranger than you could have ever imagined.
This was going to be a long, long assignment.
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The meeting dissolved without ceremony. Murn gave a curt nod and was the first to leave, followed by Harcourt and Economos who vanished into the misty parking lot like ghosts. Adebayo offered you another small, sympathetic smile before departing, leaving you alone in the booth with the one person you had crossed the country to see, the one person who had said absolutely nothing to you.
Chris drained his beer, slammed the bottle on the table, and stood up, his movements stiff. He still wouldn’t look at you. He started for the door, and a hot, familiar anger surged through you. After ten years of silence, of grief, of carrying a lie that had shattered your life, he wasn’t going to just walk away. Not again.
You followed him out into the damp air, the drizzle clinging to your hair and clothes. He was already at his car, a garish muscle car painted with red, white, and blue stripes that was just as loud and obnoxious as his costume. As he pulled the driver’s side door open, a large bald eagle sitting in the passenger seat let out a sharp, piercing squawk. The eagle’s head tilted, its intelligent eyes fixing on you. It ruffled its feathers, a low, almost purring sound rumbling in its chest as it recognized a scent from a decade ago.
“Chris, wait up!” you yelled, your voice sharp in the quiet lot.
He froze, his hand on the car door. For a long moment, he didn’t move, his back a rigid wall of muscle and leather. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and slowly turned to face you. The bravado was gone, replaced by a weary defensiveness. The harsh fluorescent lights of the parking lot carved deep shadows into his face.
“What?” he asked, his voice rough.
“‘What?’” you repeated, the word a bitter taste on your tongue. You took a step closer, your fists clenched at your sides. “That’s all you have to say to me? Ten years, Chris. Ten years, and all I get is ‘what?’”
“Look, I’ve been busy,” he grumbled, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “You know. Peace stuff. Killing bad guys. It’s a whole thing.” He was deflecting, hiding behind the ridiculous persona he had built. It only made you angrier.
“I thought you were dead,” you said, your voice cracking on the last word. The sound hung between you, raw and wounded. “For ten years, I thought you were dead. I grieved for you. I mourned you.”
His jaw tightened. He looked away, his gaze fixed on some distant point in the darkness. “Yeah, well. I’m not.”
“No, you’re not,” you shot back, taking another step. You were right in front of him now, close enough to see the flicker of pain in his eyes that he was trying so desperately to hide. “You’re alive. And for ten years, everyone in that town, everyone we grew up with, thought I was the one who put you in the ground. Your father told them I stabbed you, Chris. He pointed his finger at me, and you… you let me run. You let me believe you were dead. Why?”
The question was a plea, a desperate cry for an answer that could somehow stitch the gaping wound of the last decade back together.
He finally looked at you, really looked at you, and the Peacemaker mask crumbled. For a fleeting second, he was just Chris again, your Chris, the big brother who taught you how to throw a punch and who held you when you cried. His expression was a mixture of guilt, regret, and a deep, simmering rage that wasn’t directed at you.
“I had to,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. “I had to let you run. If you had stayed… he would have killed you. Or worse.” He shook his head, a muscle twitching in his cheek. “I knew you didn’t do it. I always knew. It was him. It was always him.”
He didn’t have to say the name. Auggie. The monster that had haunted both of your childhoods.
Tears you didn’t even know were there began to stream down your face, hot trails on your cold skin. You let out a choked sob, a sound that was a mixture of relief and a decade’s worth of pain. Without thinking, you lunged forward and wrapped your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. He was stiff at first, his body unused to such gentle contact. But then, slowly, hesitantly, his arms came up and wrapped around you, holding you in a tight, protective embrace that was so familiar it made your heart ache.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into your hair, the words thick with an emotion he rarely showed. “For all of it.”
In the passenger seat, Eagly let out a soft, contented squawk. For the first time since you had set foot back in Evergreen, a tiny, fragile piece of you felt like it had finally come home.
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The drive back to your parents’ house was a blur. The familiar streets of Evergreen, slick with rain and shrouded in mist, passed by your car windows like scenes from a dream. Your hands were steady on the wheel, a stark contrast to the chaotic symphony of emotions playing out in your chest. Relief, so potent it was almost painful, warred with a decade of simmering anger and a grief so profound it had become a part of your DNA. He was alive. Chris was alive. The simple, four-word sentence replayed in your mind, a mantra that was both a miracle and a curse. Alive, but a stranger in a ridiculous costume, a man who smelled of gunpowder and hid behind a wall of crass jokes.
Parking in the driveway, you cut the engine and sat in the sudden, heavy silence. The hug. You could still feel it. The stiff, awkward resistance in his body before he finally, finally melted into the embrace. The gruff, mumbled apology in your hair. It was so quintessentially Chris—emotionally constipated, but loyal to the bone. He let you run to save you. The knowledge was a balm on a wound you didn’t even know was still festering.
You finally forced your tired limbs out of the car and walked back into the house. The smell of your mother’s pot pie still lingered in the air. Your parents were in the living room, their soft murmurs a comforting backdrop as you ascended the stairs to your old bedroom.
Pushing the door open, you were hit with a wave of temporal vertigo. It was a perfect, preserved time capsule of the eighteen-year-old girl you had been. Faded posters of obscure indie bands were still taped to the walls, their corners curling with age. A stack of well-worn fantasy novels sat on your nightstand, a place of honor next to a small, framed photo of you and Chris, arms slung around each other’s shoulders, grinning like idiots at some long-forgotten joke. The bed was still covered in the same purple comforter, now slightly faded. It was your room, but it wasn’t yours. Not anymore. The girl who lived here was naive and hopeful. She hadn’t seen a man’s face contort as an alien butterfly crawled out of his mouth. She hadn’t spent ten years learning how to kill, how to lie, how to disappear.
God, what a mess, you thought, the internal voice dry and weary. He’s alive. And we’re hunting aliens. In Evergreen. What the actual fuck is my life?
With a sigh, you heaved your suitcase onto the bed and unzipped it. The contents were a stark contrast to the room’s teenage nostalgia: practical, dark-colored clothing, a dopp kit with travel-sized toiletries, and, tucked into a hidden compartment, your service weapon and a slim, manila folder stamped with the A.R.G.U.S. insignia. PROJECT BUTTERFLY.
You began to unpack, the mundane, repetitive motion a welcome distraction. You hung up a black jacket, your fingers brushing over the reinforced lining. You folded a pair of dark jeans. Then, you sat on the edge of your bed and opened the folder. The clinical, typewritten words were a world away from the emotional chaos of the last few hours.
“...hosts exhibit enhanced strength and a hive-mind mentality... primary weakness appears to be sonic frequencies, though this is inconsistent... termination requires catastrophic neurological trauma...”
Your professional mind took over, analyzing the data, cross-referencing it with what Murn had said. You flipped through the grainy photos of suspected hosts. A state senator. A local police chief. A CEO of a logging company based just outside of town. A company you remembered. You used to go fishing in a creek that ran through their property. The thought sent a chill down your spine. The butterflies weren’t just an abstract threat; they were here, infesting the places of your childhood.
So, we’re not just killing aliens, you mused, tracing the outline of the senator’s face. We’re killing our neighbors. Or what’s left of them. The thought was grim, but it was the job. You had learned long ago to compartmentalize, to separate the mission from the morality. It was the only way to survive.
After finishing the folder, the adrenaline that had been fueling you for hours finally crashed, leaving you feeling hollowed out and bone-tired. You gathered a change of clothes and walked down the familiar hallway to the bathroom, the worn floral wallpaper a ghost from your childhood. You stripped off your clothes and stepped into the shower, the hot water a welcome shock to your system. You let it run over you, washing away the grime of the flight, the sticky residue of the restaurant, the lingering scent of Chris’s leather jacket. You closed your eyes, the water drumming a steady rhythm against your skull. You thought of Chris’s face when he saw you. The flicker of pain. The guilt. The rage at his father. You thought of the team. Murn’s grim determination. Harcourt’s icy competence. Adebayo’s wide-eyed nervousness. And that busboy. Adrian.
He was cute, you admitted to the privacy of your own mind, a fleeting, inconsequential thought. In a weird, intense, probably-needs-to-be-on-medication kind of way. There was something about his smile, though. It was so genuine, so utterly without guile. It was a strange contrast to the rest of this town, to the secrets and lies that seemed to permeate the very air. Chris had called him weird. Coming from Chris, that was saying something.
You shut off the water, the sudden silence deafening. After toweling off and pulling on a soft t-shirt and a pair of worn pajama pants, you crawled into your old bed. The sheets smelled of your mother’s laundry detergent, a scent of safety and childhood that felt like a lie. You were not safe. You were a soldier sleeping behind enemy lines.
You pulled out your phone, the screen a harsh blue light in the darkness. Your thumb hovered over your contacts, over the name you had never been able to bring yourself to delete. Chris.
For a long moment, you just stared at it. What do you even say after ten years of silence and a parking lot reconciliation? What’s the protocol for texting the big brother you thought was dead? Your fingers trembled slightly as you typed, deleted, and re-typed a dozen different messages.
Finally, you settled on something that felt right, something that was so perfectly you and him.
You: Glad you’re not dead, asshole.
You hit send before you could second-guess yourself, your heart pounding in your chest. You watched the three little dots appear, disappear, and then reappear. A minute stretched into an eternity. Then, your phone buzzed.
Chris: Yeah, well. You’re still a pain in my ass.
A real, genuine smile, the first one since you’d arrived, spread across your face. It was a start. It was more than you had dared to hope for. You typed one more message.
You: Get some sleep. We’ve got butterflies to kill.
Chris: You too. Don’t let the bed bugs bite. Or the aliens.
You set your phone on the nightstand, the small, glowing screen a beacon in the darkness. You were home. You were in danger. Your brother was alive. And you had a job to do. For the first time in a long time, you felt a flicker of something that wasn’t anger, or grief, or fear. It was a fragile, tentative thing, but it was there. It felt a flicker of hope.
I HATE liking Niche characters because what do you mean there are little to no fics of them???? and if I do find some it's all just smut or one shots 😭 please normalize big fat juicy slow Burns🙏
it acts as a sort of cooling system kind of like how computers and other electronics that are meant to function for long periods of time have built-in fans
They have a synthetic lung like component that circulates oxygen and keeps them from overheating from the inside
episode 10: stop the world I wanna get off (with you)
pairing: ryomen sukuna x fem!reader (university au)
summary: sukuna has a notorious reputation on campus of being terrifying, but it's hard to be too scared of the guy when he shows up to your family’s failing bakery every day to buy strawberry shortbread.
when your life feels like its falling apart you discover just how sweet he can be.
word count: 13.2k
content: 18+ mdni, smut, university au, FLUFF, angst, humor, slow burn, idiots in love, miscommunication, parental illness/death, grief, toxic ex-bf, reference to past sexual coercion/assault, money issues, stress and overwork, introverted reader, panic attacks, anxiety, violence, piv, fingering, cunnilingus
a/n: went a bit crazy on the word count for this one hehe hope you all enjoy
series masterlist | ao3 | previous chapter (ch9) | next chapter (ch11)
Waking up with you in his arms had Sukuna wondering if he was still caught in a dream.
It all seemed surreal, tangled up in your sheets, sunlight filtering through the blinds illuminating your bodies snuggled up in your bed. One of his arms was resting beneath your neck, while the other was curled around your waist, pressed against warm skin where your pyjama shirt had ridden up during the night.
Your hands were clutched against your chest, face buried in his shoulder, warm breath fanning against his skin as you slept peacefully at his side. He blinked sleep out of his eyes, careful not to move as he stared down at you, heart picking up at the sight of your tousled hair, at how peaceful you looked with your long lashes brushing against your cheeks.
Now that he was really giving it some thought, this was the first time that he’d ever woken up in bed with a woman. For all his sexual encounters, he always made sure that the girl would leave as soon as they were done, uninterested in taking his one night stands beyond anything but sex.
With you it was different. He’d swear off sex completely if that was what was necessary to see you like this each morning, so soft and angelic in the golden light.
His hand moved from your waist up into your hair, threading through the soft strands, stroking gently as he held you against his chest, completely at peace feeling the calm rise and fall of your chest. He wasn’t sure how you’d be when you finally awoke, a sense of anxiety making itself known in his chest as he considered that you might not want to be all tangled up with him like this in the light of day.
After all the events with Hiromi, he wouldn’t be surprised if your aversion to touch made itself known once more, your trauma leading you to push him away, unable to separate the memories of Hiromi from the presence of Sukuna.
But for now he shoved the worries aside.
All that mattered was that right now he had you happily in his arms - if you woke up in complete terror then the two of you could cross that bridge when you came to it.
He found himself surprised by how long you ended up sleeping in that morning.
You were typically always awake before him, responding to his good morning texts in an instant, most likely already at the bakery or at the library, forever a morning person. But today it seemed as though you were completely at peace, finally getting yourself some well-earned rest.
There was a smug part of him that was convinced your relaxed state was his doing, that you’d been wound so tight for months and he’d finally given you the release and safety that you needed.
He liked the idea that he could have such an impact on you.
By the time you finally came to at 11am, Sukuna had started contemplating whether or not he should wake you himself. His arm was totally dead from you laying atop it, and his phone was completely out of his reach, meaning that he’d spent the last couple of hours splitting his time between micro-analysing every tiny detail of your room, and fantasizing about what it would be like to fuck you in this bed with all your cute little stuffed animals watching.
Admittedly, he really tried to put that thought out of his head, considering that you weren’t anywhere near ready for that yet, but it was difficult with the way that you kept shifting against him in your sleep, each contact making him achingly hard.
It was almost a relief when your pretty eyes fluttered open, instinctively shifting away from him as you began to wake up. You looked cute, rubbing sleep from the corners of your eyes as you glanced up at him shyly.
“Morning, angel.”
“Hey.” You took a deep breath. “Sorry-”
“You’ve been awake like three seconds, the hell are you apologising for?”
You shrugged, a red flush coating your cheeks as you pouted, reaching out to grab a frog plushie that sat beside your pillow, fiddling with its webbed hands. “Y’know, asking you to come over so late and crying and stuff.”
“You’re so stupid.” He said with a breathy laugh.
“I’m not stupid.”
“Really? How come you keep believing that everything’s an imposition then? If you’re so smart, surely you should be able to figure out that I want to be here. Quit apologising.”
“Fine.” You mumbled, not unlike a kid who had just been scolded.
“Good girl.”
There was an incredulous look on your face, but it did little to hide the furious blush on your cheeks at his words. He’d gotten good at understanding what was and wasn’t crossing a line for you, and flustering comments were definitely on the table.
As was kissing you on the forehead apparently, if last night was anything to go by.
It was almost embarrassing how happy that had made him, his heart racing at the thought of a mere peck on the forehead - not even a kiss on the lips and he still felt overjoyed. After all the time he’d spent mocking Choso for being down bad about various girls, he’d never expected that he’d finally understand it.
“Your hair.” He was taken aback as you reached out to him, fingers gently brushing the strands that had fallen in front of his forehead. “It’s down.”
“What, did you think it just defied gravity or something?”
“No.” You giggled. “Just haven’t seen it like this before.”
Personally, Sukuna hated having his hair down - it would get in his eyes and made him look entirely too much like his brother Jin. He’d been pushing it back since childhood, always making sure to differentiate himself from his sibling.
Though, he’d be lying if he said he didn’t like the way you were looking at him right now.
“You look so pretty.” You spoke softly.
“I’m not going for pretty.” He grumbled, trying to ignore the way his heart fluttered. The feeling only intensified as you laughed once more, dropping your hand back into your lap as you gazed at him.
“Handsome then?”
“Are you flattering me for a reason?” He asked with a wry grin.
“Never.” You said, entirely too seriously.
Fuck, you were so cute.
He pulled himself up from the bed, running his fingers through his hair, attempting to push it up as normal. A couple of strands fell back down, but for now that would have to do.
Trekking across the room he winced at the sight of his phone, an instagram message request lighting up the screen. It was from an account he didn’t know, but the username and contents of the message made it easy enough to guess who it was from.
There was a whole lot of cursing, and a slew of insults about you, ranging from emphasizing how much of a prude you were to somehow calling you a whore within the span of the same sentence.
For all of your talk about how elegant Hiromi was with his words, it certainly wasn’t shining through in this message. He’d probably sent it when he was still raging drunk, although he’d still had the clarity to send it from a burner account to make things more difficult if Sukuna were to try reporting it to the police.
Bastard.
Sukuna glanced over at you, sitting on the bed and stretching, your shirt rising a little as you reached your hands over your head. He supposed that he should tell you about the message, but that felt wrong. He didn’t want you to think about Hiromi for a moment longer - he’d take care of it and you could keep your peace.
“You’ve got all your socials set to private, right?” Sukuna asked.
You winced, clearly smart enough to understand what would prompt him to ask such a question, but unwilling to compromise your own peace by delving into his words. “Yeah, only followers can message me.”
“Good.”
“Do you think he’ll come back? Hiromi?” Your voice was quiet. The frog plushie was in your lap now, where you were fiddling with it anxiously.
Sukuna thought about that. He didn’t really know Hiromi well enough to decisively say either way, but the man had probably been shaken up by Sukuna’s presence last night. His instagram message was filled with plenty of faux courage, but that was much easier to present through a screen than in person.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
He hadn’t meant to sound so flippant, only realising that his response had probably scared you when he noticed the way that your shoulders seized up a little.
“It doesn’t matter though. If he comes back I’ll deal with him.” He approached you, fingers finding their way beneath your chin as he leant forward, tilting your face up a little before pressing a kiss against your forehead as he’d done last night. “Let’s have some breakfast, yeah?”
As he’d expected, he’d found your cupboards to be relatively bare. That tended to be the norm with you, only generally having groceries to spare when Sukuna was coming around regularly. Considering that he’d been in Kyoto for the past week he should’ve expected that you’d go straight back to your habit of convenience store dinners.
Not that he minded, it just meant that he got to take you to a cafe for breakfast, which was probably for the best anyway, it was better for you to get out of the house.
You were staring out of the window of the cute cafe he’d led you to, drumming your fingers absentmindedly against the wood of the table as he approached with a tray in hand, placing a mocha down in front of you along with a pain au chocolat.
“This place is good, I sometimes go before lectures, but the cakes and pastries aren’t anywhere near as good as the ones your dad makes.” He said, taking a bite from the cinnamon roll that he’d gotten for himself.
“I’ll tell him you said that, he’ll be thrilled.” You said, turning your attention to him. It was clear that you were trying your best to act like everything was normal, but he could still see that glassy, far-off look in your eyes that said differently.
“I already have told him.” He said with a grin, thinking about the way the old man had lit up at his words.
Hell, he’d even received a call from his own dad a day later where Wasuke had told him all about how thrilled your father had been at the compliment, gushing about what a lovely son Wasuke had raised.
Ironically, his dad had spent the rest of the phone call yelling at him, asking why he’d be so damn polite to someone else’s family but not his own.
You smiled. “No wonder he loves you so much. Hadn’t realised how much you were feeding his ego.”
“Oh? He loves me?”
“Yeah.” You said, rolling your eyes. “He’s very invested in…this. Keeps telling me to invite you over for dinner and stuff.”
Sukuna tilted his head. “In this? Whatever do you mean?” His tone was playful, feeling a rush of excitement at the way you glared at him. It was probably mean to tease you right now, considering the night you’d had, but some things were too good to pass up.
“You know, this.” You gestured between the two of you, clearly praying that was enough of an explanation to sufficiently appease him.
It wasn’t.
“No, actually I don’t know.” He said, leaning forward and resting his chin atop his hand. “Guess you’ll have to explain it to me.”
“I hate you.” You mumbled, before falling silent, unwilling to play along with his game.
He wasn’t really surprised - he knew that you weren’t ready to label things yet, but the fact that you’d even told your father about everything going on was enough of a sign for him on where your mind was at.
Well, that paired with the fact that he’d spent last night in your bed.
“I don’t think I’ve received that invite, you know? The one to dinner with your dad.” He spoke after a beat of silence, shit-eating grin fixed on his face.
“No?” You asked, blinking up at him innocently. “Oh, I swear I asked you to come and be held captive in my dad’s apartment while he talks you through every baseball card he’s ever owned.”
Sukuna laughed. “I definitely would’ve remembered if you’d asked, that sounds like the ideal Friday night to me.”
“Sure.” You rolled your eyes, obviously assuming that was sarcasm.
To an extent it was sarcasm, since his perfect friday night would probably be something along the lines of fucking you on his couch while some shitty movie plays in the background, but as far as he was concerned spending an evening with you and your dad wasn’t far off ideal either.
After all, he’d get to spend the night hanging out with you, hearing embarrassing stories about your childhood and just generally deepening the bond you had. Not to mention, he liked your dad a lot - he had plenty of time for the old man and was more than happy to listen to him talk through his card collection.
“I’m not kidding. Invite me over.”
You stared at him, surprise evident on your face as you gave him a little smile and a nod. You opened your mouth to say something only to falter as your phone lit up, a text coming in from an unknown number. Sukuna couldn’t quite read it from his position opposite you, but the way that the colour drained from your face said it all.
The screen went dark as you sucked in a deep breath, making an effort to try and calm yourself. Sukuna stared at you for a moment before reaching out towards the phone.
“Can I see?”
You nodded, unlocking it and handing it to him without a word, turning to look out the window, as if you could pretend that nothing was happening as long as you didn’t personally acknowledge the notification.
He frowned as he stared at the paragraph before him.
[Unknown]: I didn’t expect you to act like all the other whores who hang off Sukuna but I guess my expectations of you were too high. Have fun begging for a shred of attention once he dumps you for someone hotter. I’ll be making millions of yen as a lawyer living in Ginza, probably dating some sexy girl who has her life together while you’ll be sad and alone wishing that you were with me. You were never good at thinking for yourself and it really shows. Hope you can live with your stupid decisions.
Digging his fingernails into his palm, he tried his best to calm himself down. What the fuck was this guy’s problem anyway? Why couldn’t he just leave you in peace? Any normal guy would take a rejection, realise that they were unwanted and back off, but for some reason that wasn’t enough for this guy - he needed to tear down your character too.
He could only assume that what he was reading right now was a mere fraction of that way Hiromi had spoken to you back when you were actually in a relationship - no wonder you’d woken up this morning and had the first word out of your mouth be an apology.
It pissed him off.
“Alright, I’m gonna go deal with him.”
You looked at him in disbelief, shaking your head desperately. “Please, I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
He winced, sighing as he stared back at you, crimson eyes unwavering as he examined your anxious expression. “Then what do you want to do? We can always report it to the police, since he is stalking you.”
“I-” You glanced around, as if nervous that someone might be listening in on your conversation. “I don’t wanna go to the police.”
He had to lean forward to even hear you, a little taken aback by your stance. Sukuna was the type of guy who probably wouldn’t go to the police unless it was really necessary, but that was because he’d been on the wrong side of the law before. You, on the other hand, shouldn’t have any objection to going to the authorities - you were completely in the right.
“Why?” He asked, letting the question hang in the air for a while before deciding that you weren’t going to give him an answer. “Look, we can’t just do nothing. He showed up at your house and now he’s still texting you nasty shit. We can report it to the police, or I can go and deal with it, but he has to know one way or another that he can’t get away with this.”
“I don’t want to do anything, I just want it to stop.” You mumbled, eyes trained on the table. “I’m just worn so thin, I’m so tired from the last few months I don’t want to deal with this at all.”
“Then let me deal with it. Let it be my problem. Hell, if you don’t want me to speak to Hiromi I can go to the police for you, I can do all the paperwork and shit, whatever, I just need to do something.”
He could understand your point of view - taking any course of action would take effort and energy that you didn’t currently have. But he was far from okay with letting Hiromi pull this shit and walk away with no consequences.
“The police won’t listen.” You said with a deep sigh. “We’ve got no real evidence beyond a couple of messages where he’s being mean, which isn’t exactly a crime. I know that the police never take harassment seriously so it just feels pointless. Besides, he’s such a smooth talker I know that he’ll just turn things around and make me look like the crazy one.”
“I mean.” Sukuna lowered his voice. “You’ve got a ring camera, right? So we can prove he showed up last night. Plus, stalking and harassment aside, he also assaulted you back when you were in a relationship. If you told the police about that they’d probably take it seriously - at the very least you’d be able to get a restraining order against him and then if he ever tried anything again he’d be arrested.”
You shook your head quickly. “I don’t- I don’t want to tell them about that.”
Sukuna’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But it would-”
“No.” You said firmly, before taking a deep breath. “Victims rarely get believed anyway - all that would do is lead us into a long and drawn out trial where I’d have to re-live everything only for Hiromi to come out on top in the end. I don’t want that, I just want to move on.”
There was a part of him that wanted to challenge that, wanted to point out that it was worth trying anyway because what Hiromi had done was despicable, leaving you mentally ruined, unable to easily cope with intimacy in the way that you could have before.
But the panic on your face gave him pause.
It wasn’t for him to decide whether you spoke up about that, and you were probably right - plenty of violent rapists walked free, so the chances of convicting a man for sexual assault when the two of you had been in a relationship at the time was even less likely.
Why should you have to face Hiromi again? Unpick all of your negative emotions only to come out of it with nothing. That wasn’t fair. He wasn’t going to force you into that.
“Sorry.” He mumbled after a few beats of silence. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”
“It's okay.” You were clutching your mug tight between your hands, letting the warmth seep into your skin, avoiding his gaze. “I just- I don’t wanna deal with a load of legal stuff, I don’t really want anything out of this beyond him leaving me alone.”
“I get it.”
He reached across the table, tips of his fingers skimming gently across yours as he pulled your hand from the mug, entwining your hands together, squeezing lightly as he encouraged you to look up at him.
“No police - that’s fine. But please let me go and talk to that asshole.” He said softly, maroon eyes fixed on you. “Let me look after you.”
He’d expected more resistance - a conclusion to the conversation in the form of you firmly putting your foot down on ignoring the issue entirely and hoping that it went away on its own. To some extent he could understand your desire for that - he’d always heard that the best way to deal with a narcissist was to give them absolutely nothing, no fuel to feed their egos.
Sukuna really wasn’t a do nothing type of guy though, so he was elated when you actually gave in, giving him permission to go and clearly lay out to Hiromi what he thought, since the message clearly hadn’t made it through his thick skull last night.
So once the two of you had finished your coffee, and you’d begrudgingly handed him Hiromi’s address after making him promise that he wasn’t going to beat the guy to death and get arrested, he headed off to confront the man.
He’d dropped you off at his house in the meantime, taking you back to your place to pack up a bag of things, suggesting that you’d feel safer in a place that Hiromi hadn’t stalked you to the night before. Considering that Toji and Choso wouldn’t be back for a few weeks it was no issue for you to be there, you could just hang out in his room while he got the job done.
Rage was burning hot in his chest by the time he arrived outside Hiromi’s house, which was disgustingly fancy for a university student. You’d mentioned that your ex’s parents were wealthy, that they’d actually bought him his own place to live in while he finished his studies, but he wasn’t expecting this.
No wonder he had such an inflated ego if this was what mommy and daddy were prepared to do for him.
It was evident that Hiromi wasn’t expecting him, considering the look of sheer terror that crossed the man’s face when he opened the door, all the blood draining from his cheeks, brown eyes wide with horror. Sukuna had to admit that it made him feel good - he knew he was a scary guy and any validation of that did wonders to his ego.
Of course Hiromi was nothing more than a keyboard warrior, a man with a load of pretty words and no real backbone. Sukuna would’ve found him amusing if not for how scared you were of the guy. The fact that you’d ever let someone so pathetic have so much control over you made him sad - this man shouldn’t have even been allowed to stand in your presence, let alone plague your mind for two years.
“What are you doing here?” Hiromi’s voice was calm, but the way that his hand was tightly clutching at the door said otherwise.
“We’re past that, don’t you think?” Sukuna said. “Playing dumb doesn’t really work for a guy like you, I know you’re clever.”
“I apologise for my behaviour last night.” Hiromi said. “I was inebriated, I acted in poor taste.”
Sukuna stared at him incredulously, before letting out a laugh, almost doubling over with how hard he was cackling. “You’ll really just say anything, huh? No wonder she’s so scared of you, that apology was so convincing that you’d have anyone fooled.”
“I was being genuin-”
“Not me, though.” Sukuna cut him off. “I know not to believe a single word out of your mouth.”
Sukuna’s hand was pressing against the door now, keen to ensure that Hiromi didn’t attempt the coward’s way out of shutting it in his face.
“Please, I’m so hungover, can you just leave?”
Hiromi was growing irritated now, standing up a little taller, clearly trying to twist the narrative so that he was the victim. He wanted it to look like Sukuna had shown up to pick a fight for no reason. That really pissed him off, and he could completely understand why you’d never felt like you had the upper hand with this man, his strong self-preservation ever knocking you off-kilter.
“No. I’m not leaving until I have assurance that you’re gonna leave her alone.”
“I told you, yesterday was just a mistake, I won’t-”
“What about the message you sent this morning?” Sukuna asked.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
He balked at that, almost impressed by Hiromi’s insistence on denying every single claim made against him. He supposed that was a perfect trait to find in a person training to be a defence lawyer. Yeah, Sukuna had done some research on the man that morning, getting you to contact Nanami for all the information he had before he’d made the drive over to Hiromi’s house.
That was how he knew that right now Hiromi was working for a company that valued their reputation significantly.
“Oh, so you don’t remember comparing my girlfriend to a whore this morning?”
He didn’t really care that you weren’t technically his girlfriend yet, because in his mind you absolutely were.
“No? Why would I do that?”
“Mmm. Must’ve been her other abusive ex then, I guess.” He said sarcastically. “How about this, then?” He held up his phone to show Hiromi the long message that he’d received in the early hours of the morning.
“I told you already, I wasn’t in my right mind, I was drunk.”
“Oh, so you admit you did send this one then?”
For a moment, Hiromi seemed caught off guard. “No, I-”
“You know, it's funny - I get drunk all the time and I’ve never stalked a girl or sent her incel-like messages. Drunk words are sober thoughts and all that - or whatever that fucking saying is.”
He’d never really believed that, but it worked well enough for his argument right now.
“Look man, it was one night, one mistake. My bad. This is between me and her anyway, I don’t know why you’re interfering. She’s probably told you plenty of lies about me and now you’re white knighting her, which is really lame - she isn’t worth all that.”
The level of delusion that Hiromi seemed to live under was something else entirely. Did he honestly think that he could turn Sukuna against you? That there would be any chance in hell that he’d believe someone who was clearly lying to his face over believing you?
Sukuna had watched you have a visceral reaction to being kissed, and the information that you had told him about Hiromi had to be practically dragged out of you. There was no doubt in his mind who the liar was here.
All of his instincts were screaming at him to punch Hiromi in the face right now, to break his nose and leave it at that - but your voice in his head urging him not to get into trouble was winning out. He didn’t want to spend the afternoon in jail, didn’t want to put you under that stress.
He’d much prefer to spend his day back at his house with you in his arms.
So he took a deep breath, and kept firm control over his temper.
“I think you’re misunderstanding.” He said calmly. “You say this is between you and her, but she wants nothing to do with you. So here I am, warning you to stop. Stop contacting her, stop talking about her, stop even fucking thinking of her.”
Hiromi chuckled. “What, are you gonna police my thoughts?” He asked incredulously.
“No, I’m not. But if you so much as glance in her direction I’ll be getting in contact with that legal firm that you intern at and I’ll show them everything. The messages you sent earlier today, the ones you sent just before she blocked you, the ring camera footage of you bashing on her door last night.”
Hiromi paled at that, eyes widening a little. In his drunken state he obviously hadn’t considered that there might be a camera.
“And, with all those things in mind, they might also be interested to hear about the way that you treated her during the relationship. Working with a guy who can’t take no for an answer doesn’t look great for a firm who actively avoids taking cases to defend rapists.”
“That’s not what-”
“I think you can lie to the police just fine, and I’m not gonna put her through you dragging her name through the mud in a court. That isn’t fair. But do you really think your firm will take any chances on you? I think you’ll be out of there quicker than you can even comprehend what’s happening.”
Hiromi hesitated, anger clearly simmering beneath a measured expression, ever focussed on keeping on that mask of manipulation, even in this situation. But Sukuna could see his hands trembling at his sides, balled into tight fists.
“So what’s it gonna be? Keep your job and stay the fuck away from her? Or throw away your future for a girl who’d rather die than go anywhere near you?” Sukuna smirked at him condescendingly. “You’re a smart guy, right? I’m sure you can make the right decision.”
—
You spent the next week practically living at Sukuna’s house.
Even though he’d gone out of his way to lay down the law to Hiromi, making it immensely clear what would happen if he came anywhere near you again, you still didn’t feel particularly safe in your own home. Sukuna had offered to stay with you until you felt comfortable again, but your preference was to be in a different place entirely.
You hadn’t spent much time at Sukuna’s place before. Mainly because he lived with Toji and Choso, and with the two of you in a weird place still, without any labels on what your relationship was, you didn’t want to make things more complex by letting more people know about the situation.
Even if they all definitely already knew where Sukuna was spending his time outside of the house.
But right now it wasn’t something that you had to worry about - with everyone off on summer break, Sukuna was currently the only one living in the house, and that meant that the two of you had the run of the place. It was nice, getting to spend the days alone together, in a place where you actually felt safe.
At first Sukuna had offered to sleep in Choso’s room while you took his bed, not taking for granted the idea that you’d want to share a bed with him again, ever doing his best to take your boundaries into account.
Originally you’d taken him up on his offer, curling up alone in his bed that smelt so much like him as you tried to drift off to sleep. But as you stared into the darkness of his room, mind racing with horrible words that Hiromi had spat at you, you found that sleep was an impossibility in your solitude.
Sukuna was shirtless as he opened the door to Choso’s room, rubbing sleep from his eyes as he gazed down at you. For a moment your mind drew a blank at what you’d even gone there for, too distracted by the sight in front of you. Your eyes trailed down his figure, admiring the tattoos running down his chest, his defined abs, the way that his sweatpants were hanging low on his waist.
Heart pounding, you tried to remind yourself of the issue at hand, completely frozen at the sight of him. You’d known he was hot but seeing him like this felt like something else entirely.
“See something you like, baby?” He asked, lips curling up into a grin as he watched you carefully.
“Uhh- I- I wasn’t-”
He let out a short chuckle as you stumbled over your words, leaning his forearm against the door, towering over your smaller figure.
“Everything okay? It's late.”
You played with your fingers, averting your gaze from him in an attempt to hide the flush painting your face. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“No?”
You shook your head, feeling a little embarrassed to show up like this, acting like a little kid who’d had a bad dream. What kind of adult couldn’t deal with sleeping alone?
“Just feel too on edge, even if he’s not coming back, everything just keeps playing over and over again in my head.”
He stepped forward and wrapped his arms around you, pulling you against his chest. Planting a kiss atop your head, he ran his hand comfortingly up and down your back, letting you relax against him. You could hear his heart racing, your breath hitching at the realisation that despite his outwardly cool appearance, he was as affected by you as you were by him.
“Want to share the bed again?” He asked, saving you the humiliation of asking the question.
You just nodded into his chest, letting him lead you back to his room, settling you both into his bed and pulling you close against him, just like he had the night before. It was a little different, feeling a whole lot more intimate with him being half naked. But you found that it wasn’t something that bothered you.
On the contrary, with his arms firmly wrapped around your body, you found yourself drifting off in a matter of minutes, the anxious thoughts floating away with his comforting presence at your side.
Sharing a bed became normal from that point on.
There was no more questioning from Sukuna’s side as to whether it was okay - it just became part of your routine, an addition to the list of intimacy that you’d allow him.
It wasn’t really a big deal - sharing a bed. Before the events with Hiromi you would’ve shared a bed with any close friend of yours without a second thought. But it felt like a major milestone now. Considering how panicked you’d felt when Sukuna had first kissed you, the fact that you now felt totally at peace when laying in his arms felt like a massive improvement.
You were sure that you still wouldn’t be able to cope if it was anyone else touching you, but with Sukuna at the very least, you felt safe. It began to even be something that you would seek out, laying your head on his lap when you’d watch TV, nestling your face into his chest each night, nudging yourself against his lips when he’d lean down to plant a kiss against your forehead.
It felt almost like you were normal. Like you weren’t someone who’d had a complete breakdown in his room at a simple kiss.
Being with Sukuna all the time felt comfortable, and even with thoughts of the encounter with Hiromi still swirling round your head, you found that those days at his house were the happiest you’d ever been.
You’d told your dad about the situation with Hiromi, filling him in on the fact that Sukuna had been looking after you ever since. The man had been livid, threatening to get in contact with your ex himself, only for you to calm him down and remind him that you’d rather he just took care of himself for now.
But he still insisted on you taking a break from the shop, promising you that he’d figure it out between your aunt and cousin so that you could take a break. You’d tried to push back, but he wasn’t taking no for an answer, teasing you about how he’d much rather you lock down his future son-in-law than waste your time working.
And as much as you’d protested, you had to admit that it was nice to wake up at Sukuna’s side with no weight on your shoulders - the whole day ahead of you, spending sleepy mornings in his arms, tangled up in his bed until the day got too hot to bear the warmth of each other’s bodies.
You’d do whatever you pleased with your days, heading out to cafes and parks, doing grocery shopping so that the two of you could cook meals together in the evenings. Sukuna always made the most of the time that you were alone in the house, taking the opportunity to show you his favourite movies and play games with him, laughing at just how bad you were when he destroyed you on Smash Bros for the 50th time.
It wasn’t strange or uncomfortable, and the nervousness that you’d occasionally felt around him seemed to melt away. Being at his side felt natural, like it was where you were meant to be. You were comfortable with him to the point where you wondered what it would be like to take things further, the question always on the tip of your tongue as he pulled you close at night.
He definitely wanted to take things further - you weren’t blind to that. When you’d cuddle in his bed, or when he’d place you on his lap, holding you against him on the couch when watching a movie, you could often feel how hard he was through his jeans or sweats.
Ever since he’d first kissed you on the forehead he’d been growing more bold, always taking the opportunity to place a gentle peck somewhere on your skin, be it your head, nose or cheek. You’d often catch him staring at your lips while you were talking, getting the occasional impulse to lean forward and kiss him yourself, only to be caught up with uncertainty about how you’d react.
What if it undid all of the progress you’d made? What if you still couldn’t cope?
The last thing you wanted was to hurt him, especially when you were in such a good place.
But you had to admit, that as the days wore on, that uncertainty began to unravel. The way that he made you feel was like nothing you’d never experienced before - completely different to your experience with Hiromi. And with each moment you couldn’t help but think that it was worth the risk.
Denying something that you wanted out of fear of how it could go wrong was stupid. Wasn’t it worse to not have it at all?
You knew that you wanted him, what were you even hesitating for?
—
Sukuna’s hand was wrapped firmly around yours as you made your way through the crowds at a summer festival in a nearby park. He’d been excited to go for weeks, loving the idea of going on a date with you that felt more special than an outing to a restaurant or cafe.
Not to mention, he loved the idea of seeing you all dressed up in a yukata - and you certainly delivered on that front, looking absolutely adorable in your light blue outfit, covered with a pattern of red flowers. You were even wearing a cute hair stick, a red glass flower sitting on the end of it.
His get-up wasn’t anywhere near as elaborate as yours, wearing a simple white yukata with navy accenting that he’d had for the last couple of years. He wasn’t really the type of person to go to summer festivals, hence the simple and inexpensive choice of clothing.
He’d always seen festivals as the kind of thing that you’d do on a date, having watched Choso attend many of them over the last two years with various girls. For that reason they’d never been something he was all that interested in.
But now that he found himself with someone that he actually wanted to take out on dates, his opinion had shifted.
And he was glad for that, because the way that your face was all bright with joy had his heart racing. You were clinging to his hand as you tugged him here and there, bringing him round to each stall as you nattered excitedly about all the food you wanted to eat and how much you were looking forward to the firework display.
The two of you ate your way through most of the festival, feasting on every type of food that you could imagine on a stick before moving onto the sweets, making sure to try out everything that the stalls had on offer - sharing choco-bananas, candyfloss and candy apples until you both started to feel sick.
Opting to go and find a place to sit and let your food digest as you waited for the fireworks to start, you came to a halt for a moment at one of the game stalls, watching people shoot at targets, your eyes skimming over the wall of prizes. You gave Sukuna’s hand a squeeze as you stared, seemingly transfixed by the sight.
There was an assortment of stuffed animals up for grabs, which you seem instantly drawn to. Considering the sheer amount of soft toys that you had in your bedroom, he couldn’t say he was that surprised, but you’d walked past plenty of stalls like that one already that evening.
“I’ve never won one of these prizes.” You said with a pout, eyes clearly focussed on something specific but he wasn’t sure what. “My dad would always take me to these types of festivals as a kid and my aim would suck so I never won. My dad would try to win a prize for me but his aim also sucks so we’d walk away with nothing.”
“That checks out.” Sukuna said with a laugh, thinking about how he’d watched you miss throwing something into the trash from just an inch away. He figured you’d pout or tell him to shut up, but you just continued on with your story.
“When I was like ten years old, there was one specific plushie that I always wanted - this cute little tiger one that I’d see every year at this festival that we’d go and visit down in Kyushu for our yearly holiday.”
Sukuna stared at the display once more, his crimson gaze falling onto a tiger plushie sat in the middle of the display. In his opinion, it was an ugly little creature, overly chunky with a slightly misshapen face. The creators of the toy had clearly been too lazy or cheap to add eyes, opting to sew in black lines to suggest that the toy’s eyes were closed.
It was no more special than any of the plushies that lined your bed, but you were staring up at it like it was the best thing you’d ever seen.
Which, somehow, made Sukuna feel a little jealous which was stupid because this thing was a fucking plushie, but he only wanted you looking at him like that.
Regardless, he shook the feeling off quickly, because seeing you smile made him insanely happy and that meant that he’d do anything to keep that bright look on your face, even if it meant winning you that stupid little creature.
“I’ve got pretty good aim.” He said casually, heart fluttering as you stared up at him all starry-eyed.
Although, it was nothing compared to the look that you gave him when he actually stepped up and won the damn thing for you.
He’d always been great at these games - this kind of thing was absolutely within his forte, and he had no problem hitting every target he was given, much to the dismay of the boy tending the stall. Hell, the thing was probably rigged to make it harder to win and he was still good enough.
You’d broken out into a huge grin as he’d handed you the tiger, clutching the thing like you’d been handed a valuable piece of jewelry rather than an ugly soft toy.
But your excitement made him feel good all the same, his ego thoroughly stroked as you gushed on about how impressive he was, how you had no idea he was so talented.
He was a man who received compliments all the time, both men and women alike always praising him for one thing or another. It was always something he saw as an annoyance - he’d never been the type of person who needed external validation to make him feel good.
A compliment from you though? That was something else entirely. Your soft little voice telling him how great never failed to put him on cloud nine. He could hear it again and again and never get tired.
The two of you made your way through the rest of the festival and up some steps, further into the park where the buzz started to die down a little. There were a handful of other couples up there, likely all seeking the same thing as you - a quieter place to watch the fireworks together.
It didn’t take much time to find a nice spot, sitting next to each other on a secluded little bench, staring out at the sky that would be streaked with colour in a short while when the show finally got started. You leant your head against Sukuna’s shoulder, letting him slide an arm around you as you leant into his side.
The tiger plushie that he’d won you was clutched in your hands tightly, your fingers rubbing at the soft fur of its head, a small smile playing on your face as you stared down at it.
“What you gonna call it?” He asked.
“Hmmm, I’m not sure.” You said thoughtfully. “I haven’t named every plushie I have.”
“But this one’s special, right? Surely it should have a name.”
You stared down at it for a moment longer before letting out a cute giggle. “You know it kinda reminds me of you, maybe I’ll call it Kuna.”
Sukuna glared at you with distaste, he wasn’t pleased to be compared to this lump of a soft toy.
“Y’know, the markings and stuff, they’re kind of like your tattoos. Plus, you won it for me so it only makes sense that he gets to be named after you.” You explained.
Admittedly, that softened the blow significantly, a warmth spreading in his chest at the thought that you’d look at this tiger and think of him. Perhaps once you’d gone back to sleeping in your own bed you’d even clutch it against you when you slept because it reminded you of him.
“Do whatever you want.” He grumbled, but it was mostly performative. You just giggled even harder, setting the tiger down in your lap as you huddled up closer to him, staring out at the view of the park you had from this vantage point. It was nice to see the festival still in full swing as before, the lanterns illuminating the people below you.
“My dad would’ve loved this festival, he’s always a snob about these kinds of things but this one would’ve lived up to his standards.”
“A summer festival snob?”
“Yeah. He hates it when things move too far from tradition, I think he has these great memories of festivals he went to as a kid and gets mad when they don’t live up to the same standards. That Kyushu festival that I mentioned? They modernised a lot a couple of years ago, had all kinds of westernised food and stalls and my dad was mad.”
Sukuna laughed, unable to even imagine what it would be like to get on your dad’s bad side. He was always so kind whenever Sukuna was around, but he supposed that your father and his must have more in common than he was aware of - they wouldn’t be so friendly otherwise.
“My family didn’t go to many festivals.” Sukuna said. “My dad was always working and my mom left so there was no big family outing. Me and Jin went with some friends towards the end of high school, and I went to one in my first year of uni with the guys, but that was it.”
“Oh…That’s a shame, I feel like it's the best when you’re a kid.”
He shrugged before glancing down at you, his eyes soft. “Maybe, but I feel like I’m enjoying it a lot right now anyway.”
You blushed, still managing to hold his gaze as you stared up at him. You could feel his breath fanning against your face, your noses almost touching as he leant down a little, eyes flickering to your lips for a moment.
“I like having you at my place.” He murmured. “Feels right, seeing you there each morning.”
“Yeah?” You asked, breath hitching.
“Yeah. I feel like you have no idea how crazy you’re driving me though.”
You blinked up at him, tilting your head in question. He drew a deep breath, trying to calm himself because that shit was hard when you were always looking so damn cute, just existing in front of him like you weren’t the prettiest woman in the world.
“I think I have some idea.” You breathed.
That statement alone was sending him into overdrive, heart hammering in his ribcage as you leant closer to him, the tips of your noses brushing for a moment before he threw caution to the wind. If you didn’t like it you could pull away, but he wasn’t going to pass up on what was probably the clearest signal you’d given him in weeks.
His lips pressed softly against yours, more cautious than the way that he’d usually kiss, giving you every chance to pull back.
But you didn’t.
His heartbeat was ringing in his ears as the fireworks started to go off in the background - something that seemed completely unimportant to him now that he had you like this, your body warm against his, the taste of sugar still prominent on your lips from all the candy you’d eaten that evening.
After a few moments he pulled away, anxiety swirling in his chest at what might come next, wondering if he’d send you running just like the last time. But things were different now, you were staring up at him with a shy smile, no fear or disappointment in your expression like before.
“Can you do that again?” You asked sweetly, the colours from the fireworks reflecting in your eyes as you awaited his response.
He broke out into a grin as he leant forward once more, pressing his lips against yours with more force this time, his tongue flicking against your lips to give him access, deepening the kiss as he pulled you flush against him, one hand tilting your head up a little to improve the angle as you let out a little whine against him.
Pulling back for a moment to catch his breath he observed your flushed cheeks, feeling lighter than he had in weeks.
“I’ll do it as many times as you want.”
—
It was late by the time you arrived back at Sukuna’s house, still giddy from the evening, letting him pull you into his room, tugging you into his lap and picking up where he’d left off - his lips on yours, his fingers all tangled up in your hair.
You were clutching his shoulders tightly, your chest pressed against his as you leant into the kiss, the sensation making your heart flutter.
Over the course of the evening you’d decided that Hiromi must’ve been a terrible kisser, because with him everything just felt kind of wet and disappointing. You’d assumed that you were the problem, that you were just one of those people who didn’t really enjoy kissing.
That certainly wasn’t the case.
With Sukuna it was just so different. It felt good - the way that his tongue would move with yours, paired with the way he’d nip lightly at your lower lip. He’d intersperse rougher, open-mouthed kisses with soft pecks, keeping you on your toes and yearning for more.
The two of you had been at it for a while, no words required for the moment. It was clear that this time was different to the first kiss that you’d shared in Sukuna’s room a few weeks back, this time there was no hesitation in your mind, no thoughts of the trauma Hiromi inflicted, no nagging fear that Sukuna was just interested in a one night stand.
This time it felt right.
His fingers were toying with the obi holding your yukata together, and as you shuffled a little in his lap you became all too aware of his hardened length beneath the fabric, pressing up against your thigh.
If you’d been in this position a few weeks ago, there was no doubt that it all would’ve been too much for you, that the realisation of him wanting you like that would be too overwhelming, sending you running for the hills.
But some power that had been held over you had been released lately. Perhaps it was the realisation of just how pathetic Hiromi truly was that had spurred this. Were you really going to let a man as sad as him impact your intimacy with someone far better?
Absolutely not.
So instead of stomach-churning anxiety, you found yourself grinding your hips against Sukuna, giving in to the desire and need that had been steadily building in your gut over the last few weeks.
He pulled back from the kiss, expression measured as he studied you, head tilting to the side in question, wondering just what it was that you were trying to do.
“I want you.” You whispered, lips still close to his.
His red eyes widened a little in surprise, clearly not expecting to do anything more than making out. Considering how slowly you’d warmed up to things you couldn’t say you were shocked by his reaction.
“We don’t have to do anything.” He said carefully, one of his hands cupping your cheek. “I don’t want you to feel pressured, if that’s what this is.”
“It's not.”
He gave you a skeptical look. “I’m not gonna be mad, you don’t have to-”
“I want this.” You cut him off. “Please. My only experiences with this suck, I just want something good to overwrite it all.”
He bit his lip, considering his options. A pang of uncertainty struck you just as hard as ever, your subconscious murmuring that he just didn’t like you that much, as if he hadn’t spent the last few hours mapping out your lips, the past weeks holding you as you slept.
“I know you’re experienced, I know you can make it feel good.” You reasoned, and he gave you a look that could only be described as exasperation. In a less serious conversation you probably would’ve laughed.
“Yeah, I’m experienced at fucking, I’m not so experienced at sweet, gentle stuff.” He pointed out, before running a hand through his hair. “I mean, I’ll be sweet and gentle with you, I just mean- you caught me off guard, I guess.” He let out a breathy laugh.
“You don’t have to treat me like I’m made of glass.” You murmured, glancing down in embarrassment.
“I know, I just- I want it to be good for you. I figured I’d have time to make that first time special, make sure that you were comfortable and all that.”
“I’m comfortable right now. I’m comfortable with you and I trust you, so…” You trailed off, playing with the edge of his yukata, where the fabric crossed over his chest. He sucked in a breath, clearly fighting a war in his head before speaking again.
“Are you sure, baby?” He asked firmly, red eyes fixed on you, searching for any hint of reluctance, but finding none.
“I’m sure.”
His lips were on you once more, kissing you desperately as his hands tugged on the bow holding your yukata together. You busied yourself pushing his yukata down off his shoulders, leaving him bare-chested as the fabric fell down to the obi at his waist.
Even though you’d seen him shirtless before, the sight never failed to ignite something in you. He was so unbelievably hot, his tattoos serving to accentuate the physique that he’d clearly worked hard to get.
Not that he allowed you much time to admire him - his lips moving onto your neck, sucking at a sweet spot just above your shoulder as he finally got the bow untied.
A soft gasp left you as he nipped at your skin, warmth pooling in your stomach as he slipped the yukata down your shoulders, leaving you in nothing but your bra and panties. You hadn’t planned for this, which meant that you were wearing mismatched underwear, something you probably would’ve considered if you’d known the night would lead to this.
Not that Sukuna seemed fazed, pulling back for a moment to admire you, his hands skimming up your sides, raising goosebumps under his touch.
“So pretty.” He hummed, peppering kisses on your shoulder, his hands finding the back of your bra and unclasping it deftly.
Your heart was thudding as he slowly pulled it off you, a wave of shyness washing over you now that you were bare under his gaze. It wasn’t like you were particularly insecure about your body, but being in this situation for the first time in a long time, with only bad experiences to reflect on, was a little nerve-wracking.
“Fuck.” Sukuna breathed softly, hand cupping one of your breasts, tracing along the curves carefully with the tips of his fingers, his touch light, like you were made of something fragile.
Eyes fixed on him as his fingers carved a path upwards, a shuddering sigh left your lips at the sensation of his fingers reaching your nipple, skimming tenderly over the peaked bud, the feeling sending a jolt of electricity straight to your gut.
In the back of your mind, you’d been aware for a long time that you were touch-starved. Because despite your crippling fear of intimacy, you were still a romantic at heart, still someone who yearned for closeness and the touch of another person. Those feelings had just been twisted and corrupted by Hiromi, locked away thanks to his mistreatment.
But Sukuna had the ability to pull them from you once more, all of your nerves going haywire as he tweaked your nipple with two fingers, leaving you rubbing your thighs together with need in the face of the attention he was giving you.
His fingers were nothing compared to his mouth, a fact that you found out almost immediately as he craned himself down, flat tongue running over the bud, teasing you for just a moment before bringing it between his lips and sucking tenderly. The pressure made your breath hitch, waves of pleasure passing through you.
It was a pleasure that didn’t subside easily, practically frozen on his lap as he lathered your breasts with attention, feeling yourself grow wetter with each flick of his tongue, unsure of what you should be doing right now while he made you feel good.
After all, it wasn’t like you had much experience with this. Should you be doing something? Was it okay that you were just clinging to him and whining like you were? A small flicker of insecurity ate at you, anxious at the thought that he’d be disappointed by your lack of experience - that other girls he’d been with might’ve done a better job at pleasing him.
“Get out of that pretty head of yours.” Sukuna pulled back from your breasts, straightening up and bringing a thumb beneath your chin, tilting your face up to look at him. “Can practically hear you overthinking.”
“Sorry, I’m just worried I won’t be good at this.”
Sukuna rolled his eyes. “Not sure you understand how badly I want you, baby. It’ll be good because I get to touch you. I don’t care if you don’t know what to do, I’ve got plenty of time to teach you anyway.”
The implication behind his tone, that this was just the first time of many, had your stomach fluttering. A feeling that was only heightened as Sukuna slipped his hand down between your thighs, fingers pressing against your panties.
“So wet, is this all for me?” He asked with a small chuckle, causing your face to redden in embarrassment. “I’m flattered, baby.”
His fingers moved deftly to the edge of the fabric, lifting you ever so slightly and pulling your panties down your legs, letting them drop to the floor. He then maneuvered you a little in his lap, so that you were sitting sideways, your head nestled in the crook of his neck. Your eyes were fixed on that space between your thighs where his hand was currently positioned, the tips of his fingers running along your folds and gathering up the slick that had accumulated there.
Your body was jolting each time his fingers brushed over your clit, like you’d been yearning for this longer than you’d been aware of, desperate for him to make you feel good.
But that didn’t stop the panic from rising in your chest at the feeling of his middle finger pressing gently at your opening, mind conjuring memories of how badly the stretch had hurt the last time you’d tried anything like this. Even when masturbating you’d only ever touch externally, opting to avoid the inevitable pain that penetration would bring.
“You okay?” He mumbled against your hair, hand stilling for a moment. “We can stop.”
“It's okay, I’m just nervous.”
He hummed, giving you a gentle squeeze with the arm currently wrapped around your midsection. “We’ll take it nice and slow.”
You sucked in a breath as the tip of his finger pressed into you, his movements careful and calculated as he worked his finger into your tight heat. You knew that you were clamping down on him more than you should be, making the situation harder for both of you as your walls gripped his finger tightly.
“Relax, baby.” He cooed, planting a couple of kisses on the top of your head, the heel of his palm rubbing against your clit, distracting you from the discomfort as he slid his finger deeper into you. It still hurt a little, the feeling foreign to you, but with each small ministration of his finger, you could feel a hint of pleasure sparking in your gut.
Fingers digging into his biceps, you let out a soft whine that had his cock twitching beneath you. That positive reinforcement made you feel good, flesh slick coating his fingers as you loosened up ever so slightly.
“There we go.”
He was moving his finger a little faster now, having located that sweet spot inside you that had your stomach clenching with need, more little whimpers falling from your lips with each subtle movement.
It came as a surprise when he started to push a second figure in, your body jolting and instantly relaxing as he applied more pressure on your clit. His free hand moved up to below your chin, tilting your face up to look at him, red eyes hazy with lust as he pulled you into a deep kiss, effectively distracting you from the pain of the stretch.
He kept you like that for a while, exploring your mouth as he worked two fingers inside you, swallowing up your soft moans as he expertly curled his fingers into a spongy spot that had your mind overcome with desire, desperate for more.
“Feel good?” He asked, breaking the kiss, a thin trail of saliva connecting the two of you for a moment.
You nodded, eyes wide and glassy as you stared up at him, knowing that your voice would come out all shaky if you tried to speak. He huffed, grinning as he picked up the pace, palm pressing more firmly against your clit now, your gut tightening as the pleasure built.
“Good.” He hummed.
It didn’t take much time for him to make you cum after that. It was clear that he hadn’t really been trying before that point, focusing more on getting you used to the sensation, stretching you out so you were ready for what would come later. But upon hearing that it felt good, it was like he kicked things into a different gear.
You whined and squirmed in his lap, clutching desperately at his bicep as you watched his hand moving between your thighs, heart racing at the sensation of him littering soft bites on your neck, pussy fluttering around his fingers each time his teeth grazed your sensitive skin.
The orgasm caught you off guard, crashing over you quickly and suddenly as the pressure in your gut released. His name fell from your lips as you clenched around his fingers, gasping for breath as he continued his onslaught, red eyes filled with lust as he watched your pleasure filled expression with a lazy grin.
“That’s my girl.” He purred, pulling his hand out from between your trembling thighs before lifting you off him, laying you down on his bed, completely exposed to him.
Even though he’d already seen everything, had already had his fingers buried inside you, you still felt a little exposed lying splayed out before him like that. Especially with the way he was standing over you, gaze drinking in your body appreciatively, with a focus that had your heart pounding.
It didn’t help that his lower body was still covered, his obi still holding up the lower part of his yukata, leaving you in a sense of vulnerability that he didn’t currently share.
Though, he didn’t give you much time to feel shy, the bed dipping beneath him as he knelt down at the end of it, laying himself down on his stomach, settling in between your parted thighs, his breath fanning over your exposed pussy.
His fingers found their way to your clit, toying with it for a moment, letting out a low chuckle at the way that your legs twitched from overstimulation, your body still coming down from your last orgasm.
“So pretty.” He mumbled, before bringing his mouth to your pussy, licking a broad strip up it that had you gasping with pleasure.
You’d always wondered what it was like to be eaten out.
It wasn’t something that Hiromi had ever done. All you’d ever done with him was have penetrative sex - foreplay hadn’t been something he was particularly interested in, claiming it to be a waste of time. You hadn’t imagined that it would feel this good, your toes curling at the sensation of Sukuna’s warm tongue pressed against you, working in tandem with his fingers on your clit.
“S-Sukuna- fuck-”
A vibration passed through you as he let out a hum against your pussy, never letting up as he flicked his tongue mercilessly against you. It was clear that he knew what he was doing, tracing patterns against you as he lapped up the juices from your first orgasm. The embarrassment of him being between your legs quickly faded as you lost yourself in the pleasure, a hand reaching down to tug at his pink locks.
He made you cum even faster that time.
Your second orgasm had your vision turning white, thighs squeezing around Sukuna’s head as you whole body shook, pulling at his hair hard enough to draw a groan from his lips. Not that the action deterred him, staying between your legs and lapping up the fresh slick that was starting to drip down your thighs.
Quiet chuckles were leaving him each time he ran his tongue through your folds, enjoying the way that your legs would shake with each pass, fingers twisting in his hair as you tried to gasp for breath, overwhelmed by the feeling.
Sitting up, he wiped slick from his chin, shooting you a grin that had your heart racing. “You taste so sweet.”
Cheeks turning a furious shade of red, you glanced away, doubtful that was actually the case, thinking back on how Hiromi had said he’d never eat you out because it was gross to do that kind of thing.
And yet here Sukuna was telling you that you tasted sweet.
It felt like you were going insane.
Sukuna was on his feet, watching you carefully as he undid his obi, letting his yukata fall to the floor. Your eyes trailed over his body, a little surprised to find that he had tattoos on his thighs, almost jealous of the tattoo artist who’d put them there in the first place.
But your attention was quickly drawn away from the tattoos as he pulled off his boxers, your breath hitching at the sight before you.
You knew that he was big. You’d heard the rumors from girls, and even if you hadn’t, Sukuna’s general physique paired with his unfaltering confidence made it an easy assumption to make.
But now that you were actually seeing it, you came to the conclusion that you might have been underestimating him.
He was far bigger than Hiromi had been, and that realisation scared you, because sex had been a painful experience back then, with a person far smaller. You’d barely managed to take two of Sukuna’s fingers, this was something else entirely.
The fear must’ve been written all over your face, because Sukuna looked sympathetic as he approached, crawling onto the bed. “Just like before, we can take things as slow as you want.” He promised, cupping your face in his hands gently.
“I just- that’s not gonna fit.”
“It will, but if you don’t wanna try we can stop.” His fingers were stroking your cheek, letting you take your time and think of your answer.
There was a part of you that wanted to run for the hills, to tell him that it was all too much. But a much bigger part of you did want to try, desperate to appease him. It was hard to say no to someone who had your stomach swarming with butterflies at their mere presence.
Of course you wanted to give it a try.
“Can I- can I be on top?” The question came out a little shaky.
Sukuna’s red eyes flew wide with surprise, clearly not expecting that response. “Uhh- yeah? If that’s what you want?” He seemed perplexed by your request.
“I don’t like the idea of not being in control right now.” You explained.
You’d only ever been beneath Hiromi, essentially a passenger to anything that happened, unable to do anything about the pain, not in control of the speed or the depth or anything else. You were certain that Sukuna would stop if you asked him to, but while you were adjusting, you wanted to be the person in the driving seat.
“Oh.” He thought about that for a moment, brows furrowing. “Yeah, that makes sense. You wanna sit in my lap?”
You nodded shyly, shuffling back on the bed as Sukuna sat with his back resting against the headboard, holding out his hand to you, helping you clamber into position on top of him, your knees planted on either side of his thighs as he gazed up at you. It felt a little odd to be looking down at him, but the way that he was staring up at you with such burning desire had your stomach flipping.
Sukuna’s hand was wrapped around his cock, rubbing the tip against your folds as you hovered just above him, mustering up your confidence as he gathered up slick, more juices leaking from your pussy at the action, turned on at the feeling of his cock pressing against you.
“Take your time. There ain’t a rush.” He whispered.
You took a deep breath as you lowered yourself down, hissing at the feeling of the head trying to push into you, meeting similar resistance that Sukuna’s fingers had earlier in the evening. His maroon eyes were on you, monitoring your expression carefully. His hands were on your hips, guiding you downwards but being careful not to force you, just helping you keep your balance.
“That’s it, baby. Doing so well.” He praised.
Even if that was a lie, which it definitely was because you currently only had the tip in and you already really wanted to cry, the compliment still made you feel good. It gave you the will to keep trying at least, because who better to work this out with than someone who was so sweet and patient with you.
Steeling yourself, you slid yourself further down his length, moving yourself down at a snail’s pace, each movement accompanied by an excruciating stretching feeling, which you were only managing thanks to Sukuna’s fingers rubbing comforting circles against your hips, his words of encouragement helping to subdue the pain.
It felt like an eternity until he was fully inside of you. A couple of tears had dripped down your cheeks, and your chest was rising and falling far quicker than usual, your body entering panic mode at just how stretched out you felt with him bottomed out inside of you.
“Good girl, just relax for me, yeah?” He whispered.
Your forehead was pressed against his, with your nails digging hard into his shoulders as you tried your best to overcome the pain. The grip that you had on him was so tight that you were sure you’d drawn blood - but he didn’t seem to mind, all of his focus was on you.
Gently, he kissed you, moving his hands to your face as he pulled you close, keeping you still in his lap as he pressed his tongue into your mouth, letting you get all caught up in him. The two of you stayed like that for a while, with one of his hands snaking down between your bodies to rub slow circles against your clit.
And little by little, the unbearable fullness started to become a little less painful. The tension in your thighs started to release, your body no longer in crisis mode at the concept of the foreign object currently filling you.
“Okay, baby?” Sukuna was breathless as he pulled back. It was apparent that he was currently engaging in an exercise of restraint, his tone a little clipped, his cock twitching with every tiny movement that you made.
He’d been waiting for this for a while - he was probably in agony having you sit still on him like this, all tensed up and squeezing his cock like you were.
You nodded shakily, before bracing your hands on his shoulders and raising your hips up once again. You couldn’t say that it didn’t hurt - that ache was still present, but it was at least bearable now, the drag of his cock along your walls almost familiar as you moved.
It was a slow process at first, dragging yourself up and down his length, thighs burning at the effort, heart fluttering as you looked at Sukuna beneath you. He seemed to be enjoying letting you take the reins, red eyes filled with lust as his gaze flickered between your face and body. He’d heap praise on you, fingers playing with your clit, face lighting up whenever pleasure would appear in your expression.
And pleasure was definitely something that you found - the stretch fleeing to the back of your mind after a couple of thrusts that had you seeing stars. Your attention became fixed on replicating that feeling, on hitting that spot over and over again, desperate to feel that spike of pleasure that summoned itself in your gut.
You sped up the movement of your hips, grinding yourself against him, moans and whimpers falling from you as you tried to seek out that pleasure. That was how you found out that your stamina for this sort of thing was limited, movement slowing as you tried to catch your breath.
“Want my help, angel?” Sukuna’s voice was low and husky, as if he was barely restraining himself.
You’d nodded weakly, letting out a yelp of surprise as he thrust up into you, holding your hips firmly as he took over. He’d clearly been waiting for this, laughing at the way that you were clinging to him now, falling forward so your chest was pressed against his, your arms wrapped around the back of his neck as he moved you like you weighed nothing, pulling your hips up and dropping you back down on his length.
And somehow, he was able to hit that pleasurable spot every single time.
It was almost embarrassing, what a poor job you’d been doing of getting yourself off, when he clearly understood the task much better.
You could feel your orgasm building up, pussy tightening around him as your release approached, only to have it snatched from you as Sukuna pulled you off him. You’d started to protest, to whine about how close you were, only for the words to be snatched from your mouth as he repositioned you so you were lying on the bed, climbing on top and sinking back into you.
“You feel so fucking good.” He rasped, thrusting into you faster. It was clear that he had more freedom in this position, able to push deeper into you, unrestrained by your body on top of his. “Wanna do this every day- fuck- you’re so damn cute, you drive me crazy.”
A whine of his name fell from his lips as you squirmed beneath him, gazing up at him with reverence. His hands were clasping yours tightly, pushing them down into the sheets.
“You’re mine, huh? Gonna be my sweet little girlfriend?”
You tried to respond, your words getting lost in a moan at the feeling of a particularly deep thrust. The coil in your gut was tightening dangerously, legs trembling with each movement of Sukuna’s cock inside you. It felt heavenly, like nothing you’d ever felt before.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” He chuckled, before leaning forward and capturing your lips in a deep kiss, muffling your whine as you came around his cock, squeezing him desperately tight as you came undone, waves of pleasure washing over you, leaving your vision blurry and your body trembling.
It didn’t take too long for Sukuna to follow suit, warmth filling you up as he released inside of you, a low groan of your name leaving his lips as he rode out his own orgasm, his hips only stilling when he was thoroughly spent.
You’d expected him to pull out quickly after that, but he didn’t. Instead, he lay down on top of you, keeping himself nestled inside your warmth as he kissed you tenderly, his hands raking through your hair.
“You feel so good.” He mumbled. “Want this all the time.”
You let out a small hum of agreement, your mind still reeling from that third orgasm, the feeling of Sukuna’s softening cock still buried inside you preoccupying your thoughts. You’d never imagined that you could feel good from something like this.
It was nice.
Really fucking nice.
“We can do that.” You whispered, feeling his body relax a little on top of you, warm breath brushing against your ear as he let out a contented sigh.
“Thank god.”
a/n: I really didn't intend to write 4k words of them fucking but here we are
thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed this chapter - reblogs and comments are appreciated, let me know if you want to be added to the taglist for this fic! <3
i tried to look at some rendering/shading methods on tiktok to test but none of them worked so i just figured it out myself (sorry for the rough n unclean linearts but i wanted to focus on shading mainly) 🧜♂️ and also practice anatomy on vigcest
───────────────────────────── nothing i need - lord huron
── .✦ do not copy, translate, or plagiarize any of my works. dividers by me.
CONTAINS NSFW, MINORS DNI
✦ . Summary: Returning from a mission, the proxies get caught in a bad storm, causing them to seek refuge in a dingy motel. They’re rain-soaked, irritable, and—even better—there’s only one bed. They agree to keep it civil… until the storm knocks the power out, and you find yourself growing very cold.
✦ . Characters: Masky x Female Reader x Hoodie
✦ . Warning: MMF threesome, breaking & entering, there was only one bed, forced proximity, teasing, dirty talk, rough sex, rough oral sex, rough kissing, motel sex, double oral penetration, double vaginal penetration, vaginal fingering, cunnilingus, hair-pulling, spanking, scratching, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, bi-curious Tim and Brian
✦ . Words: 16k
✦ . Note: First time collaborating with Reamina! They are absolutely so totally talented, so definitely go check their art out!! Hope to continue working together in the future! Hope you all enjoy this one as much I enjoyed writing it, happy reading!
Art by @reaminaart.
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Sleeping in your own bed is a luxury.
So are dingy diner breakfasts. And full packs of cigarettes. And, most importantly—
Coffee.
Some days, the proxies could afford to splurge on a pack of Marlboro 47’s instead of the chalky Sonoma’s that constantly clouded their lungs.
And, god, what Masky wouldn’t give to have one of those filters sitting between his teeth right now.
Instead, he’s huddled in the passenger seat of their rusting pickup, fog curling on the inside of the windshield and moisture creeping through the seams of his gloves. The heater gave up somewhere outside of the interstate. The storm started maybe twenty minutes after that. Wet, heavy, and endless. It was just past sunset now, the last fragments of day holding on between the rows of pine trees. The windshield wipers made a soft chk-chk sound as the rain pelted the truck in rhythmic sheets, casting streaks of grey across the glass. The headlights cut through fog like a dull blade, barely illuminating the sign ahead: Hollow Pines Motel—a crooked “O” flickering like a stuttering heartbeat.
“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me,” Masky muttered, voice low, rasped from disuse and days-old cigarette damage.
Hoodie, hands still on the wheel, squinted out into the rain. His soaked hood clung to his neck, the fabric stiff with damp. He hadn’t spoken in nearly an hour, not since they passed the blown-out gas station miles back, but now he nodded toward the structure. “It’s this or another two hours in this storm. But it’s starting to get rough, I can hardly see.”
You shifted in the back seat, body sore and stiff from being crammed in with gear and backpacks. “I’m not sleeping in this car again,” you said quietly. “I’d rather break into the motel laundry room and curl up in a dryer.”
Masky grunted something that might’ve been a laugh. Hoodie turned the wheel with a slow exhale and pulled into the lot, tires hissing over slick pavement. The neon vacancy sign buzzed weakly overhead like it was embarrassed to still be working. The three of you sat for a second in the silence. The kind of silence that comes from exhaustion that goes bone-deep. Hoodie shut off the engine, the low rumbling sputtering to a stop, steam wafting into the cold air.
“Christ.” Masky shoved open the passenger door, the wind snatching it like it was trying to pull him out. “You see the price?” he asked, yanking his coat tighter around his chest as he leaned into the rain to check the window near the front office. You all hauled your backpacks and loose gear into your arms, making sure to grab the pistols that were haphazardly shoved onto the console.
Hoodie was already out of the car too, stepping around the front with that slow, silent way he had. You followed them, boots sloshing in ankle-deep puddles.
Masky tapped the dusty glass of the check-in window. “Hundred bucks a night,” he confirmed.
You scoffed. “For a mattress that probably smells like piss and black mold.”
“Luxury accommodations,” Masky muttered.
Hoodie didn’t say anything. Just tilted his head toward the back lot, already making his way around the side of the building without waiting for a vote. You and Masky exchanged a glance—his eyes just barely visible behind his mask, shadowed and unreadable—before following.
The back of the motel was unlit, the shadows hugging the cracked stucco and chipped siding. The storm covered your movements well; even if there were cameras, the rain was so thick it blurred everything. Your boots slipped once in the mud, but you caught yourself on the siding. Hoodie was already crouched by one of the doors, gloved fingers working at the cheap lock with a bent nail file and a bit of force.
You leaned close, your voice barely above the wind. “You always this good at B&E, or is this just desperation?”
He glanced up at you, a little smirk twitching behind his balaclava. “You doubt me?”
“No,” you said. “Just surprised. Figured Masky was the one who played with locks.”
“I break things,” Masky replied from behind you. “Not finesse. That’s his job.”
The lock gave with a sharp clack and Hoodie stood, pushing the door open slowly. You all slipped inside like shadows.
It was dark—no surprise—but you flicked on the wall switch, half-expecting nothing to happen. A single yellow bulb buzzed to life. The room was small, boxy, and smelled like mildew and cheap cleaner, the scent already soaked into the fake wood paneling and shag carpet. A dresser sat crooked against the far wall, one drawer missing. There was a tiny bathroom tucked to the left, door already ajar.
And there, smack in the middle of the room, was a single queen-sized bed.
The three of you stood there, dripping, steaming slightly from the sudden warmth of the heater kicking on. There was silence for a long moment, just staring at the ugly quilt bedding and the thin headboard.
“…Shit,” Masky said under his breath, breaking the tension.
You blinked slowly, peering around like maybe there’d be a cot hidden in the closet. No dice. “Well,” you said, unstrapping your gear. “At least it’s not the car.”
Hoodie dropped his bag with a soft thump. “I’ll take the floor.”
“You’ll freeze your spine into the carpet,” you muttered, shrugging off your coat. The boys pulled off their masks, wind-bitten ears and scowls now easily viewable. “We’ve all slept shoulder-to-shoulder in worse places. It’s fine.”
Masky huffed, peeling off his gloves and shaking out his sleeves. “Yeah, but this time I’ll have your elbow in my kidney.”
You smirked faintly and tossed him a dry shirt from your pack. “Then don’t sleep on the edge.”
“Not your call. I’m not sleeping between you two.”
The storm outside cracked louder now, wind howling through the gaps in the warped window frame. Hoodie knelt by the heater and fiddled with the dial. “It’s gonna get colder.”
“I’ll still hide in that dryer if I have to,” you replied, rubbing your arms.
Masky eyed the bed again, exhaling slowly through his nose. “You take the middle, then. I don’t want to wake up to your cold feet on my back.”
“Deal,” you said, without hesitation. “But if either of you snores, I swear I’m rolling off the bed and letting the carpet bugs have me.”
Masky shook his head, half a laugh slipping out. “We’ve slept next to corpses, and you’re worried about snoring?”
You raised an eyebrow. “Exactly. I deserve peace after that.”
Your joints ached from the cold, and your socks squelched as you peeled them off near the foot of the bed. The idea of crawling in without cleaning off three days of dirt, sweat, and blood made your skin crawl. You grabbed your pack and slung it over your shoulder, dragging it toward the bathroom.
“I’m showering,” you announced, not waiting for approval. “If I don’t come back in fifteen minutes, assume I’ve been consumed by mold.”
Masky raised a brow behind his cracked mask. “If the water’s hot, leave me some.”
“If it’s hot, I’m never coming out.”
You slammed the door shut behind you with your hip.
The bathroom light flickered, then steadied. It smelled like damp towels and lemon-scented cleaner that hadn’t touched a surface in years. The mirror was warped, streaked with time, and the tiled floor was a patchwork of mismatched squares, some missing entirely. You dropped your pack, stripping out of your gear with heavy, sluggish movements. Clothes hit the tile with a wet smack.
The water knobs were stiff. You wrestled with them until the pipes coughed to life, sputtering brown water for three full seconds before clearing into a thin, pitiful stream of heat.
It was glorious.
You didn’t even care that the pressure was weak or that the water smelled faintly like iron. You stood under it until the chill started to lift from your bones, your fingers red from scrubbing grime out of your hair. The shampoo from your travel kit barely lathered, but it was enough. Just enough to feel human for a moment.
When you finally stepped out, towel slung around your chest and hair dripping down your back, the small mirror was fogged over. You swiped your hand across it and stared at yourself. Hollow-eyed. Pale. Tired.
But still living.
You dressed fast—baggy shirt, clean sweats, and thick socks—and stepped out into the main room again.
“Bathroom’s yours,” you said, tossing your towel toward the radiator to dry. “If you want a shower before we all start reeking like death.”
Masky looked up from where he was pulling the dresser away from the wall. “You sayin’ I smell?”
“I’m saying we all do. But I’m starting with you.”
He snorted and grabbed his own bag. “Fine. Brian, you go after me.”
Hoodie gave a small nod from where he was sitting wide-legged on the foot of the bed, unpacking a crushed protein bar and flipping a knife lazily in his other hand.
The bathroom door didn’t quite latch all the way when Masky shut it behind him. The rattle of the fan and the sound of the shower pipes starting up again filled the room. Steam already began to curl out into the room.
You pulled your legs up onto the bed, leaning against the headboard beside Hoodie. “You think it’s gonna keep raining?”
He nodded once. “For a while. Pressure’s low. Wind’s picking up, too.”
“We’re a good three hours out from the mansion with clear roads. Storm like this?” You looked toward the window. “Could trap us here.”
Hoodie didn’t look concerned. Just thoughtful. “We have supplies for two more days. After that, we’ll need to hit a gas station or raid a rest stop.”
Masky’s voice echoed faintly from the shower. “We shoulda taken that turnoff by Route 16. I told you the forest line was too flooded.”
You called back, “Yeah? And then we’d be stuck in that ravine with the blown bridge.”
“I still say we’d have made better time!”
The pipes groaned as Masky shut off the water. You heard the sharp snap of a towel and the thunk of the cabinet door being yanked open. A second later, he stepped back into the room wearing black sweats and a Yale shirt he stole from a thrift store, towel hanging around his neck.
“Enjoy your mold bath?” you asked.
“Best bath I’ve had all week,” he said, running a hand through his wet hair. He was still a little flushed from the heat. “Your turn.”
Hoodie stood and passed you a granola bar from the floor. “If I’m not back in ten, assume I fell through the shower tile.”
“Then I’m keeping your coat,” you said, biting into the bar. He smirked faintly and stepped into the bathroom, the door left cracked open again.
Masky sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, closing Hoodie’s open knife and tossing it across the room with a thud. “We need to barricade the door,” he muttered. “Just in case.”
You nodded, chewing. “Already thought of it. That dresser looks like it wants to collapse under its own weight though.”
“Then we collapse it into the door. Makes it heavier.”
You both got up and hauled the thing across the carpet. The drawers creaked and sagged, one half-falling out, but the bulk of it pressed up solid against the door. Masky shoved a chair into place behind it just for good measure. “That’ll buy us time if someone gets suspicious,” he muttered.
You gave it a solid knock. “Better than nothing.”
The sound of Hoodie’s voice floated from the bathroom. “If the dresser doesn’t hold, we’ll hear it. But we should sleep light.”
Masky leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “I always do.”
You sat back on the bed again, rubbing at your sore neck. “This whole thing—getting cut off from the trails, missing the rendezvous… it felt off.”
Masky’s eyes flicked toward you. “You think we were set up?”
“No. Just… something’s been off since the last drop point. Toby didn’t meet us. The codes we found were weeks old. And the mansion’s been radio silent.”
Steam spilled out of the bathroom as Hoodie stepped back into the room, hair damp, sweatshirt sleeves rolled up with his baggy shorts. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out tomorrow. Right now we need rest.”
Masky grumbled, but nodded. You looked at the bed. Then at the two men standing near it.
“…This is gonna be cozy.”
Masky sighed, rubbing his face. “Don’t steal the covers.”
You plopped facedown in the middle of the mattress with a groan loud enough to rattle the springs beneath you.
“Kill me,” you muttered into the pillow. “Actually kill me.”
“We’d have to move your body,” Masky grunted.
“But then there’d be more room on the bed,” Hoodie added, his voice dry as the towel he tossed onto the footboard.
“Assholes.”
The mattress dipped as Hoodie moved first, reaching across you to shut off the lightswitch. The room was immediately swallowed in darkness, save for the flicker… flicker… buzz of the red neon sign outside the window. The words VACANCY pulsed through the cheap curtains, casting long, broken shadows across the cracked ceiling. It painted the room in hellish slices of red and black, over and over again, like a warning no one wanted to heed. Wind howled outside, and the storm pushed against the walls like a living thing, the door hinges creaking.
The floorboards creaked under Masky’s weight as he climbed in, shoving your legs with his knee. “Move over.”
“I’m in the middle,” you hissed. “You move over.”
“You agreed to the middle, idiot. That means you suffer.”
“Not my fault you both smell like a wet barn.”
Hoodie wordlessly climbed in on your other side, tugging the blanket halfway across himself and accidentally yanking it off your shoulder.
“Dude—! I just got warm!”
“Share,” he said simply.
You groaned again and tried to burrow under the half-flattened pillow. The mattress bowed toward the center, the way cheap ones always do, and the weight of both of them on either side left you trapped in a warm, squashed human sandwich.
“Your knee is in my back,” you grunted, trying to shift.
“Your elbow’s in my ribs.”
“Your foot is on my ass.”
“Should’ve slept on the floor,” Masky muttered.
Hoodie huffed beside you, and you felt the warmth of his breath on the back of your neck. “Should’ve stolen a second room.”
“Would’ve been too risky,” you deadpanned.
Silence followed, except for the storm and the buzzing hum of the neon. Rain hit the windows like coins flung from the sky. Somewhere, metal creaked—maybe a sign coming loose in the wind. Every so often thunder rumbled, deep and low, followed by the sharp crack of lightning that lit the room up in stark, stuttering white.
You blinked slowly, staring at the ugly floral wallpaper that danced in flickering red.
“…I hate this,” you whispered.
Masky shifted beside you. “We’re not built for comfort.”
“No shit.”
No one spoke after that. The warmth of the bed was stifling and too hot on one side, too cold on the other. Someone’s arm was pressing into your shoulder blade. The mattress springs popped and squeaked every time one of you breathed too hard. But it was warm. And dry. And no one was bleeding out.
So it was enough.
You felt Hoodie exhale, his hand resting somewhere behind your shoulder. Masky’s breathing slowed on the other side, steady and deep.
The three of you, wedged together like puzzle pieces that didn’t quite fit, surrounded by motel rot, bad weather, and the hum of neon that never shut off. And still, somehow—somehow—you felt safer than you had in days.
Not comfortable. Not relaxed. But safe. Warm. Alive.
And that was all you needed.
── .✦
The cold woke you.
Not gently, either—rudely.
The kind of cold that slid under your clothes and coiled around your spine, setting your teeth on edge before your mind was even fully awake. The kind of cold that made your breath puff visible in the dark.
You cracked your eyes open and blinked slowly, vision fuzzy from sleep. The neon still pulsed through the flimsy curtains—VACANCY, VACANCY, over and over like a heartbeat. But the air in the room had shifted.
Frigid. Still. Dead.
You shifted, trying to burrow deeper into the blanket, but it didn’t help. The sheets were icy and clammy now, the warmth from earlier long since bled out. Even sandwiched between the boys, your body was curled in tight with shivers that refused to stop.
Your feet ached. Your fingers were numb. You muttered something like a curse and extended your leg under the covers, kicking sharply into Hoodie’s shin. He stirred with a grunt.
Another kick. “Wake up,” you hissed through chattering teeth. “It’s freezing.”
He groaned and rolled halfway toward you. “You woke me up to complain?”
“No, I woke you up to fix it,” you growled. “The heater’s dead.”
He sighed, sitting up stiffly and rubbing his hands over his face. “Storm probably knocked something out. I’ll check.”
You heard the soft rustle of fabric and blankets as he swung his legs off the bed. His feet hit the carpet with a dull thud. The air in the room was colder near the floor, and he muttered under his breath as he shuffled over to the ancient heating unit mounted below the window. You watched the silhouette of his body crouch in front of it.
Silence.
Then the sharp click-click-click of him toggling the controls.
Nothing.
“Anything?” you croaked, curling tighter.
He tried again. Click. Click. The machine made a low, sad whine and then gave up. “…It’s dead,” he said flatly.
Masky stirred beside you with a low groan. “Why the fuck are we talking.”
“Power’s out,” Hoodie answered, crossing the room and flipping the light switch. Nothing. No hum. No buzz. Just dark. “No lights. No heat.”
Masky grunted and buried his face deeper into the pillow. “Put on more layers.”
“I’d rather die,” you snapped.
“You will if you don’t move.”
But moving felt impossible. Every inch of your body throbbed from the chill, and even the thought of peeling back the blanket made your stomach twist with dread. You stayed still for a few seconds longer, limbs curled in, jaw clenched.
Then, against your better judgment, you did something stupid.
You turned over. And scooted forward.
Masky tensed as your frozen hands pressed against his back under the blanket.
“…Seriously?” he grumbled.
“I’m cold,” you whispered. “You’re warm. Shut up.”
“I’m not your personal space heater—”
“You are now.”
Before he could throw you off, you looked up toward the edge of the bed, toward Hoodie’s silhouette against the dim glow from the window. “You too. Come back.”
He hesitated for a beat—silent, unreadable.
Then, wordlessly, Hoodie climbed back into the bed and pressed in behind you, dragging the blanket back over your shoulders. His legs bumped into yours, cold against cold, but he wrapped one arm around your middle and flattened his chest to your back, sharing what little heat he had left.
“Fucking freezing,” he mumbled, breath curling hot against your neck.
“I told you,” you muttered.
Masky sighed like this was the single worst night of his life, but didn’t push you off. Instead, he rolled over to face you, adjusting just enough to tuck your frigid hands between his stomach and forearm, cursing under his breath when your fingertips touched bare skin.
The three of you laid there in stiff, half-defensive silence for a long moment—too aware of one another, too cold to care. The storm outside roared like it was clawing at the world, tearing through trees and battering the roof. Thunder cracked sharp again—too close this time—and you jumped a little, instinctively pressing back into the warmth behind you.
Hoodie didn’t move.
He was right up against your spine now, chest rising and falling slow and steady. One arm was still slung over your waist, hand resting on the curve of your hip. You thought he was asleep—until you felt it.
A small shift. A breath. Warm, humid, and far too close.
He was nuzzling against your shoulder without even realizing it, the scratch of his stubble catching your skin as his nose brushed against your shoulder. The blanket shifted with him as he exhaled, slow and hot right into the crook of your neck.
You twitched slightly, uncomfortable and hyperaware. “Hoodie,” you grumbled under your breath.
“Shut up,” Masky said against you, voice muffled as he turned his face into the thin pillow. “If he’s warm, let him be.”
“I’m not a heating pad.”
“You sure? You’re stiff enough to be one. Quit being a hypocrite.”
You let out a quiet, tired groan, but didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Didn’t want to, maybe. You weren’t sure anymore. Every inch of you was sore and freezing, but now you were also simmering—the kind of heat that came from nerves, not temperature.
Because Hoodie didn’t move away. Not after you spoke. If anything… he moved closer. His hand flexed gently on your hip, fingers brushing up under the hem of your shirt to rest against bare skin. Not in a purposeful way. Not even in a bold way. Just enough to make you feel it.
The heat of his palm. The silence between you. Your only saving grace against the awkwardness was the thundering rain to drown out your thoughts.
Masky shifted against you—closer. One leg hooked loosely over yours, tangling the blankets further, his knee brushing your thigh.
Your body tensed between them, caught in a coil of limbs and heat and quiet desperation to stay warm—except the room wasn’t cold anymore. Not even a little. You weren’t sure when the switch had happened. The heater was still off, but you didn’t think you’d need it anymore.
Maybe it was when Masky’s hand found your waist from the front, nudging Hoodie’s out of the way without a word. His knuckles dragged just below your ribs, resting on the dip of your waist. A sharp inhale rose in your throat, but you swallowed it back down. Then Hoodie’s hand moved—slow and steady—up your side, pushing the thin fabric of your shirt with it.
You let out the softest breath, barely audible, and immediately regretted it.
Because now? Now they both noticed.
Masky shifted again, his chest pressed against yours like he was trying to claim ground that Hoodie hadn’t gotten to yet. His hand stayed still—but the weight of it, the heat of it, was unmistakable.
“…We’re just trying to stay warm,” you mumbled, not sure if it was for them or for yourself.
“Right,” Hoodie murmured, voice lower now. Too low. Too quiet. Like he didn’t believe it either.
And yet, no one stopped.
Fingertips brushed skin in places they shouldn’t. Legs shifted and tangled until there was no telling whose was whose. Every exhale felt heavy. Every heartbeat, louder.
You didn’t move. Couldn’t even if you tried. Their breath was all around you now. Warm and slow and steady. Masky’s hand curled more fully onto your hip, hoodie’s fingertips resting dangerously at the edge of your ribcage.
Just trying to stay warm. Just trying to sleep. But none of you were sleeping. Not anymore.
The tension was palpable, like a low hum in the walls, crawling under your skin and pressing into your ribcage with every too-slow breath and unprovoked rub of Hoodie’s fingers. Not a single one of you had moved significantly in the last five minutes—but everything had shifted.
No one was breathing the same.
Masky’s hand was still on your hip, but his thumb now idly rubbed soft, small circles against your skin. Careless. Casual. Like it meant nothing. Like he wasn’t doing it on purpose. Except he was and you knew it.
And Hoodie’s hand? It was still resting against your side, fingers splayed just beneath the curve of your ribs. But his index finger kept twitching, tracing back and forth along the dip of your waist like he was memorizing it.
Not moving. Not groping. Not grabbing. Just there. There and not leaving. No one said a word.
The storm screamed outside—lightning strobing against the walls through the curtains, thunder slamming across the motel like a threat. But inside, the only thing louder than the weather was the silence. Heavy. Electric.
You swallowed thickly and shifted your hips slightly, just trying to get comfortable, but the second you did—
They both reacted. A small jerk from Hoodie’s side, as if startled. Masky’s hand tightening ever so slightly around your waist. And still—still—none of you spoke.
You could feel the heat building between your bodies, not just from physical closeness anymore, but from the constant, crawling knowledge that this was intentional. No one was pretending to sleep now. You could feel them thinking. You could hear them thinking. They were doing the same thing you were—holding their breath, trying to pretend they weren’t slowly, deliberately letting their hands wander. Acting like they were coy. Like none of this was deliberate. Like it was just… staying warm. It was. Sort of.
Your heart thudded too hard in your chest. You couldn’t breathe right anymore. Not with Hoodie’s breath now ghosting along your neck. Not with Masky’s fingers inching just a little lower, like he was daring himself.
Like he was waiting for a reason to stop. Or to keep going. The silence was unbearable again.
So you broke it.
“Y’know,” you said, voice a little too dry, “if you two are gonna feel me up, the least you could do is buy me coffee first.”
It hit the air like a lit match.
Masky let out a snort. Hoodie groaned and let his head fall forward against your shoulder, body shaking with quiet laughter. The tension cracked—not shattered, not gone—but enough to breathe again. Enough for everyone to get a second wind.
“Jesus Christ,” Masky muttered, dragging a hand down his face and rubbing at his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to toss your smartass off this bed.”
You grinned, even as his hand slid off your stomach, Hoodie’s following just after. They pulled back, barely, the air chilling where their hands had been. You rolled onto your back, staring up at the oddly colored ceiling.
“Relax,” Hoodie said, rubbing his palms against his chest like he was trying to wake up, trying to calm the sudden thrum of energy vibrating through all of you. “I wasn’t— we weren’t—shit, I don’t even know anymore.”
“No?” you said, voice lower now. “’Cause it felt like you knew exactly what you were doing.”
They went quiet again, for half a second. You reached out, grabbing both of their hands before they could retreat too far. Your fingers wrapped around their wrists, firm but not desperate.
“I said I was cold,” you murmured, “not that it was an invitation to leave.” Then you tilted your head, gave the smallest smile. “But if we’re gonna keep pretending this wasn’t happening—if we’re gonna lie to ourselves—then just go ahead. Crawl back under the covers. Sleep real close. Shake and sweat it out and pretend it’s the cold again. But I think you two know exactly what you want.”
That did it.
Masky’s eyes snapped to yours, sharp beneath the shadows of the room. Hoodie swallowed hard, his hand curling tighter into the fabric of his sweatshirt. You felt your pulse everywhere.
“If you’re gonna do this…” you said, quieter now, the storm filling in the background like it was listening, “then fuck it.”
Your voice didn’t shake. “Do it.”
They didn’t wait. Hoodie moved first—he always did, once the hesitation cracked. He shifted back down, fingers sliding under your shirt with intent this time, not caution. His mouth found your neck before you could process how close he’d gotten, hot breath skating over your skin, lips brushing just under your jaw. Masky’s hands were on your waist again in an instant, pulling you toward him even as Hoodie leaned in from behind. They moved in tandem—without speaking, without planning—like they’d done this before, like they knew how to move together.
Like this was just another kind of mission.
Your shirt rode up as Hoodie’s fingers pushed higher, his teeth scraping your throat just enough to make your breath catch. A laugh slipped out, barely held in—half nerves, half disbelief.
“Still cold?” Masky murmured, voice low and husky near your ear.
You shook your head—because you weren’t. But not for the same reasons anymore. Masky’s hand spread flat against your stomach, fingers dragging upward, slow and deliberate. His mouth found your jaw, a low breath brushing your skin just before he murmured, “You sure about this?”
You didn’t even hesitate. “I wouldn’t have said it if I wasn’t.”
That was all they needed.
Hoodie’s fingers curled at your hip as he shifted behind you, one leg sliding between yours for leverage as his lips dragged heat up your neck. He didn’t kiss—not really. Just breathed, lips parted against your skin like he was trying to memorize your pulse.
Masky leaned in closer from the front, your bodies flush now, every part of you wrapped in them. His nose brushed yours as he looked down, searching your face, checking for hesitation—but there was none.
Not from you. Not from them. Only hunger. Only need.
He tilted his head and kissed you.
It wasn’t desperate. Not at first. It was careful, like he was trying to figure out just how far he could push you—how much you’d give, how much you wanted to be taken. Your lips parted, and he took that as permission to deepen it, his hand splaying wide across your back to pull you closer. You gripped onto his shirt, clawing at the fabric and the hot skin underneath.
Hoodie’s hand moved too—traveling up your spine under your shirt, the calluses on his fingers dragging sparks in their wake. You arched between them instinctively, and they both reacted like it was planned. Like they knew each other’s rhythm. Like they’d always known how to share.
You gasped as Masky bit gently at your bottom lip, Hoodie’s teeth following suit at your shoulder, syncing up without a single word. The world narrowed to touch and breath and heat, to the way your body trembled, not from cold anymore but from the overwhelming closeness.
Your shirt was sliding upward, Hoodie’s hands bunching it at your chest, Masky helping tug it over your head. You felt the way they stalled, felt the energy tighten around you. Hoodie’s mouth slid off your throat, attention elsewhere. Masky did the same, his mouth no longer moving against yours as you looked between them.
“What? Did you really think I was about to wear a bra to bed?”
Hoodie gave a stark laugh, tossing your shirt across the floor. Masky grinned, a rattled breath snaking through his lungs and brushing against your skin. If there was any chance of this fizzling out, that was all gone the minute you felt their rough hands on your tits. You could’ve blamed your nipples being already hard on the freezing temperatures, but you knew otherwise.
Hoodie tugged your shoulder, forcing you to lay on your back between them. He palmed at your right, strong hands squeezing and kneading the skin, planting kisses across your collar bone. Masky’s cupping the other—firm, rough, fingers spreading and squeezing just enough to make your breath hitch. His thumb circles slowly around your nipple, not quite touching it yet.
“You’re so sensitive here,” he murmurs. “Bet I could keep you whining just from this.”
Hoodie’s fingers are long and skilled, and you arch a little between them, like you can’t decide who you want more. “Let’s test it,” Hoodie says quietly.
“See how fast we can get you squirming,” Masky adds with a grin.
Masky leans in first, mouth latching onto your breast—hot, open-mouthed kisses around the swell, then his tongue flicks your nipple just once, and your hips buck. “There it is,” he mutters against your skin. “Already needy. Huh, mouse?”
Hoodie chuckles—low, dark. His mouth follows suit, kissing down your sternum, trailing heat, then latching onto the other. Slower. Teasing. He sucks it softly, just enough to make you gasp. You’re caught between them—their mouths warm and wet, their hands gripping and stroking and kneading like they’re mapping you out.
Your hands find purchase in their hair, each hand tangling into the short strands at the back of their head. They groan a little when you tug, eyes glaring up at you through heavy lids and hungry gazes.
Masky bites down—not too hard, but enough to sting. You yelp. He groans. “Easy now.” he growls.
“Watch it, Tim,” Hoodie says, licking a slow stripe up to your nipple. “Gonna overwhelm her.” He pinches it gently between his teeth. Sucks. Again. Again. The little gap in his front two teeth seems to be made for your nipple, rolling the nub like you’re not gasping at every move.
“Good. She asked for it.” Masky flicks his tongue fast and merciless, then blows cool air across the wet skin, watching you shiver. “You should see yourself,” he breathes. “So fucking hot. Should’ve done this ages ago.”
“Mhm,” Hoodie murmurs, the sound muffled as he sucks onto your nipple. His eyes are fluttering shut, fingers digging sharply into your hip as he groans against your skin.
Your mouth is parted, small gasps and quiet whines with every roll of their tongues and nips of their teeth. “Boys—shit.”
Now Masky’s sucking harder, pulling needy, wet little whines from your throat. Hoodie drags his thumb over the nipple he just left wet and stiff, watching you writhe. You tug their hair, the sensation making their eyes roll.
“Bet I could get you off from this,” Hoodie whispers.
“Bet you’d scream,” Masky adds, licking a circle around your nipple like he’s trying to ruin you.
And honestly? They’re not wrong. You’re soaked between your thighs, heart racing, every nerve on fire—and they haven’t even touched you there yet. Your clothes feel hot, sweatpants feel too thick—despite the clouds of foggy air that leave your lips every time you breath out.
“God, you’re beautiful like this,” Hoodie breathes, kissing along the curve of your breast, right where your ribs meet the rounded skin.
“So fucking responsive,” Masky grunts. “Twitching from our mouths alone.”
Then—hands. Everywhere.
Masky’s dragging his hand down your stomach, fingers slipping past your waistband. Your gasp, legs instinctively closing together, but they’ve always been stronger than you. Hoodie shifts off your nipple for a quick second, sitting up to slide two large hands under your hips and lift. Masky pops off too, leaning forward to push your sweatpants down and off your legs, tossing them behind him.
Your panties are soaked. Even in the low red light, even when you have to squint to see their awed expressions—you can feel it. The cold air hits your clothed core and your legs lock tight, trying to shield yourself from the frigid air. They just chuckle, thundering voices making every hair on your body stand up.
Hoodie moves first, two hands clasping over your knees, before he’s pushing your legs apart. Your shiver from the cold air—and maybe the feeling of ecstasy that shoots up your spine—before he’s leaning down between your thighs.
You gasp, sitting up onto your elbows, but Masky pushes your chest back down, crowding your space before you can panic. “He’s got you. Just relax, sweetheart.”
His mouth immediately finds the nipple that Hoodie was occupied on earlier, wet lips wrapping around the bruised nub and sucking gently as he kneads your other tit. He’s a lot more gentle than before, like he’s savoring the taste of your skin as he rolls his tongue. Your hands find his hair, but you’re now keenly aware of the hot breath that has found its way against your inner thighs.
Hoodie has leaned down between the spread of your legs, his short hair tickling your skin with every press of his lips against your inner thighs. He’s being slow, making sure the kiss is pressed firm, making sure you feel it. You find yourself spreading them wider the farther down the goes, his calloused hands kneading into the skin just above your hips.
“Hmm, Brian…” you huff, tugging Masky’s hair when he lets off one nipple and shifts to the other, eyes shut tight in quiet concentration. Hoodie chuckles, making your hips twitch, angling them upward. “So impatient,” he kisses your thigh again.
You’re about to wind off with something, making a snide remark—until you feel firm lips press against your clit through your panties. Your hips immediately jerk to the sensation, clit twitching for more when he begins to plant kiss after kiss against your folds, the sensation muffled by your thin underwear.
“Oh god, oh my god—”
Masky chuckles against your tit, kneading the mound in his hand as he looks up at you, eyes heavy with satisfaction. “Remember to be quiet, sweetheart. Don’t wanna wake the neighbours.”
There’s no way they would be able to with the intensity of the storm outside, but it lights a spark low in your stomach nonetheless.
Hoodie plants one final, heavy kiss against your cunt before he’s hooking fingers under the waistband of your panties, slowly dragging them up your legs and off your ankles.
You can feel the thickness in the air, even despite the cold.
“Fuck…” Hoodie groans, mulling over every inch of your soaked cunt before him, eyes so wide you’d think he’s crazy. Masky smirks against your skin. You feel them both reading each other, shuffling in time until Masky’s teeth are nipping your chest, then your collarbones, up to your neck—and Hoodie’s hands move between your legs.
Hoodie’s warm hand spreads your folds open with slow, confident ease. You can feel his breath on your skin—close. Teasing. He runs two thick fingers between your lips, collecting the slick building at your entrance onto his fingers. “Jesus, you’re so wet. Haven’t even done anything.”
He thumbs at your clit, pressing the pad against the nub and eliciting a stark jolt from your body. They both chuckle, then Hoodie’s middle finger presses against your entrance.
“Oh, fuck—” you whine, arms wrapping around Masky’s shoulders as he finds a home at the crease of your neck, sucking with the same force as before onto your throat. Your fingers dig into the fabric of his shirt, and suddenly you’re keenly aware of just how exposed you are compared to them, their clothes still completely on while you lay shaking and bare.
Hoodie begins to press his finger, slowly slipping the first knuckle into your cunt, the cold digit making you hiss against your scalding insides. Masky captures the noise, lips gliding up your jaw and onto your lips as you drag your hands down his back.
“Damn—tight,” Hoodie mutters. “Burnin’ up inside.” He pushes deeper, bullying against the resistance, until his entire finger is crooning into the heat of your walls. You cry out—head tilted back, running your hands under Masky’s shirt and pushing it up his back. His skin is so warm against your cold hands, him grumbling against your lips.
“Oh my god—Brian—please—” His free hand is pushing your knees apart, holding them open despite the instinctual jerks to close them shut every time he pumps that finger into your sopping cunt. It’s not another second before he’s adding another, curling the thick knuckles, your arousal glistening on his skin.
“Shhhh. Tim, can you grab her?” You’re dazed, kissed and dizzy and way-too-cold to think straight, but the two still seem to have a level head about them. Masky nods, biting a kiss against your jaw before he’s sitting up, pulling his half-askew shirt off his head and throwing it behind him.
Your eyes are blurry, but the sight is enough to make your heart thud against your chest.
His body is thick. Solid. Built like a brawler. Not sculpted like a model, no—this is the body of someone who’s carried people over his shoulder, fought tooth and nail, hurt and healed, all muscle and brute strength. His chest is broad, lightly dusted with hair, and he’s got old scars crisscrossing his ribs—pale white against flushed skin. One, angry and puckered, traces the edge of his abdomen. You want to ask about it. You don’t. You’ll save it for later.
Hoodie follows, easing his fingers out of you, and sitting back on his knees. He pulls one arm out of his sweatshirt, then throws the fabric off, breathing deep and heavy as he looks down at you. His body is lithe. Lean muscle. Strong and resilient. Like he was made to move in the dark. His skin is pale in the light—not sickly, but smooth, cold-toned, with a few old bruises and sharp collarbones you want to mouth at. His stomach is flat, lightly defined, the kind of body that doesn’t beg for attention until you look too long. And then it’s like it begs you to touch it.
Both of them in the red VACANCY light. They move before you can stare for as long as you’d like.
Masky pushes an arm under your shoulders, lifting you just enough to sit behind you, back against the thin headboard. You’re naked, trembling, and pulled into Masky’s lap—back to his chest, legs splayed wide across his thighs, pussy bare and soaking, dripping down onto the bedspread.
His arms cage you. One around your waist, firm. One between your breasts, hand teasing the soft weight of them, thumb brushing a nipple already sensitive from earlier, still slick with their mouths. “You look so good like this,” he breathes into your ear. “So helpless.”
“All for us,” Hoodie adds from below, kneeling between your spread legs.
You’re tilted back, cradled in Masky’s lap, thighs open wide and shaking—because Hoodie’s face is right there. Inches from your core, his breath hot, his fingers already sliding between your folds again. “So pretty,” he mutters. “So fucking pretty, little mouse.”
“Don’t make her wait,” Masky growls. “She’ll start begging.” Hoodie grins, Masky does too.
Hoodie licks a slow, devastating stripe through your folds—tongue thick, hot, relentless—and your whole body jerks against Masky’s chest. He groans behind you, lips dragging along your neck, holding you tighter. “Yeah. Just like that. Let him taste how bad you need it.”
Hoodie wraps his arms under your thighs, pinning them open, then sucks your clit straight into his mouth—firm, wet pressure that sends shockwaves straight up your spine. “Oh my god—B-Brian—”
His response is to moan against you—low and hungry—then slide two fingers inside your slick heat, curling instantly, like he knows the spot. And he does. Your arch into the feeling, gripping your hands into the fabric of Masky’s pants.
“Feel that?” Masky mutters, gripping your chest, grinding his clothed cock slowly against your lower back. “He’s already got you shaking. Not even fucking you yet.”
You sob, back arching. Masky holds you tighter.
“Eyes on him,” he commands. “Watch what he’s doing to you.”
You do. Hoodie’s devouring you—tongue flicking, lips sucking, fingers pumping slow and deep, angled perfectly—and the sight alone would be enough to undo you. But with Masky’s rough grip on your tits, his breath hot in your ear, his teeth nipping your neck? You’re already right there.
“Mhmm—Hah—Fuck—” you whine, moaning every time Masky’s lips brush under your ear.
There’s no rush in him. This isn’t frantic. It’s not desperate. It’s methodical. He licks in a rhythm—slow flicks to your clit, long, wet drags through your folds, then dipping just enough of his tongue inside you to make you cry out before he’s back up again.
Your hips jerk up, instinctive. Hoodie groans—and the vibration of it against your clit sends a bolt of pleasure so sharp you gasp. “There it is,” he murmurs against you. “That little flutter. Right around my fingers.”
He fucks you slow—fingers deep, tongue steady, so much eye contact. He watches every twitch of your thighs, every shake of your breath, memorizing you. “You wanna come?” he asks softly, lips brushing your clit. “Then take it. Grind on my mouth. Come just like this.”
You do. You grind. You moan. You beg. Hoodie speeds up. His tongue never stops—swirling, licking, sucking like he’s trying to ruin you forever—and his fingers are hitting just right, just right, over and over.
Masky’s mouth is on your neck, kissing hard, biting a little, hand dragging down to your throat just enough to hold. “Come on,” he growls. “Let him taste it.”
“Be good,” Hoodie pants. “Give it to me.”
You shatter. Your thighs clamp down, toes curling, back arching against Masky as you cry out—loud, shaking, the orgasm rolling through you so hard it blinds you.
Hoodie doesn’t stop. He keeps licking. Gentle now. Praising. Masky holds you through it, one hand stroking your thigh, the other soothing your chest. “That’s it, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Come all over his fingers.”
You’re a mess—you can feel it. Your thighs are slick, chest heaving, and your head’s tipped back on Masky’s shoulder as aftershocks ripple through you—little tremors you can’t control. Hoodie’s fingers are still inside you, curled perfectly, buried to the knuckle while his mouth rests just above your clit, his breath still hot against your overstimulated skin.
He’s staring. Watching your pussy twitch. Watching your orgasm leak down over his fingers, practically dripping onto his wrist. “Christ,” he says softly. “Look at this mess you made on me.” And then, slowly—deliberately—he slides his fingers out of you.
You feel everything. The drag. The stretch. The wet sound as you clench down, reluctant to let go. His fingers are soaked. Glistening. Sticky with you. “Still so warm,” he murmurs, eyes low, voice thick. “Fuck.”
He doesn’t wipe them off. Instead, Hoodie brings them to his mouth and sucks. First one finger. Then the next. Tongue swirling. Lips sealed around them as he tastes your orgasm like it’s dessert—slow, patient, savoring every drop of you like you’re something holy.
You watch. You can’t not watch. His eyes never leave yours as he licks his fingers clean, moaning quietly, like he could drink down your pleasure and still need more. “Tastes so good,” he mutters, fingers leaving his mouth with a soft, wet pop. “I could keep eating you all night.”
And he means it. Because once his fingers are clean, he leans back in. His hands return to your thighs, spreading them open wider again—reverent now, like he’s laying you bare for something sacred. Then he dips his head and licks you clean.
There’s no rush now. He already got you to fall apart. His tongue is gentle, slow. He licks up the mess he made, collecting the slick along your folds, savoring it. You gasp as he brushes your clit again—sensitive, overstimulated—and he pauses. Your hips twitch, instinctively tilting into him.
He groans. Masky kisses up your throat, trailing the pulse line up your neck, rubbing your sides as he watches Hoodie.
He licks along your slit. Soft. Deep. Focused. Devouring you slowly like the taste is something he’d kill to keep on his tongue. Every flick is precise. Every swirl of his tongue feels like the echo of your orgasm being dragged out longer and longer, until you’re shaking all over again.
Your thighs squeeze his shoulders. Your hands tug at Masky’s pants. You moan—loud, raw, needy—as he sucks your clit one more time. “B-Brian—please—”
He kisses your thighs one last time, then crawls up your body—slow, mouth wet, eyes hungry. He plants his hands at either side of Masky’s hips, resting his weight just above you. He doesn’t say anything as he leans down and kisses you, tongue slipping past your lips.
And you taste it. You taste you. Raw. Sweet. Still slick on his tongue. You moan into him, and he smiles against your mouth. “Told you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Fucking addictive.”
“Fuck,” Masky mutters, voice low, rough, gravelly with want.
“Yeah,” Hoodie says, quieter, more composed—but there’s a rasp to his voice that wasn’t there before. “She’s still dripping.”
He lifts his fingers. Still slick with his spit and the taste of you. Masky stares. His jaw clenches. Hoodie grins.
“You wanna taste?”
That makes him freeze. His eyes flick up to Hoodie’s—sharp, uncertain. A silent what the fuck hanging in the air between them.
But then your voice breaks the tension, soft and breathy, “Please… I wanna see.” You smile small between them, looking up through wet lashes as they challenge each other.
Masky’s eyes snap back to you—and whatever resistance was there? Gone. Disappearing behind a smug smile.
Masky reaches out. Not for you—for Hoodie.
His fingers wrap in Hoodie’s hair, yanking him forward fast—rough, impatient, like it pisses him off that he even wants this—and he kisses him. Not clean. Not graceful. It’s awkward. Heated. All teeth and subtle fighting. Their noses bump. Their mouths don’t line up right. Masky’s jaw is too tight, and Hoodie’s caught off guard, breath stuttering against the pressure of it—but neither of them pulls away.
Masky tastes your slick on Hoodie’s lips and growls. “Jesus,” he breathes, breaking the kiss for just a second, staring at Hoodie’s mouth like it betrayed him. “What the fuck.”
“You’re the one that kissed me,” Hoodie mutters, but there’s no anger—only heat, confused and burning, as he presses forward again.
They kiss deeper this time. Still awkward. Still not romantic. But slower. Hungrier. Their tongues slide, catching the taste of you between them—and it’s not about each other—it’s about you—or at least they’re telling that to themselves.
Masky’s hands go back to your thighs. Hoodie’s palm presses against your stomach, holding you still as they lean in together—over you, around you.
You reach up and wrap your fingers into their hair, tugging them both close—sandwiched between them, heat radiating off their bodies like they’ve been waiting for this. You pull them down toward you with a breathless whine, lips parting—eyes wild with need.
“Good grief,” you whisper, voice wrecked, trying your best to sound humorous. “I can step out of the room if you need me to.”
You glance outside to see the way the rain is flooding off the gutters and onto the pavement below, and maybe think otherwise.
Their eyes flick to each other—sharp, unreadable—but they don’t speak. They don’t need to.
Because Hoodie’s fingers are already under your jaw, tilting your face up. And Masky’s grabbing your waist, yanking you back toward his chest. It’s greedy. Open-mouthed. Back and forth—Hoodie’s lips first, still tasting like you, then Masky’s mouth, rough and hot, tongue sliding between your teeth like he’s trying to take something from you. They groan—fuck, they groan like they need this—and you moan into them as your thighs clench around Hoodie’s hips.
Their hands are already on your body—gripping your waist, your hips, your jaw—and suddenly you feel it: a shift in the weight of the bed, a rush of cool air as they move.
“Off the bed,” Masky speaks, voice thick, already climbing down. “On your knees. Now.”
“C’mere, sweetheart,” Hoodie murmurs, gentler—but the command is still there in the grip of his hands on your arms.
You’re panting as they guide you off the mattress, strong hands dragging you to the edge and down—the motel carpet rough under your knees, your body between them.
Hoodie stands to your right, skin glistening with sweat, chest rising and falling steady. He hooks his thumbs in the band of his shorts, and drags them down, kicking them and his boxers off his ankles. Masky is on your left, he does the same, tugging the string of his sweatpants and kicking them off as well.
Your hands are resting on your knees as you kneel between them, but you’re fighting the need to wipe the drool from your lip as you glance between them.
Hoodie is long. Thicker than you expected. Veins along the shaft, flushed at the head—and fully hard now. Standing proud, ready. Like the sight of you wrecked is more than enough. His pubic hair is short and well kept, a light brown trailing up to his belly button. He grins, hand fisting the base as he watches you with blown pupils and parted lips.
Masky is heavy, thick, flushed from you grinding back against him. Half-hard, proud, veins visible in the light. He’s bigger than Hoodie, but not longer. His pubic hair is thicker, too—running up through his torso to the patches at his chest. You see the thick, aching weight of him, twitching with every breath you take.
They’re both standing over you. And you’re down between them—messy, panting, mouth wet, eyes wide, ready.
Their hands find your hair at the same time. You hiss as they pull you closer, up off your heels, hands finding their thighs.
Hoodie brushes your jaw with his thumb. “Open that pretty mouth,” he breathes.
Masky growls low in his throat. “Gonna ruin it, baby.”
Your knees press against the motel carpet, damp and rough beneath your skin, but you don’t care—all you can feel is the heat rising off them, their bodies looming over you like the storm about to break through the window.
Hoodie’s cock nudges your lips first, thick and flushed, twitching with need. His fingers thread into your hair, gentle but commanding, tilting your head forward. He holds himself at the base, tapping the drooling head against your pout.
You open your mouth, tongue lapping the tip, tasting the salt of him. He groans low, deep in his throat—and you suck him in slow, sliding your mouth down the length as far as you can go, then pulling back off with a wet pop.
Right then, Masky’s hand curls around the back of your neck, steadying you, thumb brushing your cheek as his cock presses at your other lip. You turn to him, parting your lips and wrapping them around his head, swirling your tongue around his head. He groans through his teeth, then huffs when you pull off as well.
Hoodie’s fingers tighten in your hair again, tilting your face toward him. You open your mouth willingly, and he slides in deep—slow, controlled. “That’s it,” he groans, his hips giving one gentle thrust. “Open wider for me.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see Masky stroking himself, smearing your spit down his length as he watches you.
Hoodie’s cock glides over your tongue, salty and smooth, his breath growing rough as you suck your lips around the size. You hollow your cheeks, swallow around him, making his knees twitch. “Dammit,” he growls.
He fucks your mouth deep and slow, thumb resting on your jaw, guiding the rhythm. It’s wet, messy—obscene—your throat working to take him in.
When you choke a little, he lets out a dark chuckle, pulling out just enough to let you breathe. “Good… just like that. Now—”
“My turn.” Masky cuts in, voice rough with impatience. His hand replaces Hoodie’s in your hair, tugging you toward him. He doesn’t say much—just lets his cock rest against your lip, thick and leaking.
You look up at him. You know that look. You’ve seen it every time he runs out of cigarettes, every time he cleans his pistol before a kill, every time you’ve caught each other’s gaze tonight—need.
He slides into your mouth hard, almost punishing, like he hates how much he wants this. “Fucking hell,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “You like being passed around, huh?”
Your moan vibrates down his length. He grabs the back of your head and starts thrusting, shallow at first, then deeper—fucking your throat with sharp, possessive hunger. Your hands claw up his thighs, nails clenched into his skin until you go to reach for the base of his cock, wrapping a fist around to give yourself some relief.
He snatches your wrist before you could even really try. “Don’t use your hands,” he snaps. “Just your mouth.”
You obey, eyes wet, throat stretched—letting him use you. Hoodie scoffs, looking between the two of you, gripping his own cock so tight he’s wincing. He grips Masky’s shoulder, leaning his weight on him as they both look down at you, both get off to the sight.
Masky grabs either side of your jaw, pulling you until you’re buried to the hilt, your nose pressed against his pelvis. You gag, tears slipping from your eyes, refusing to look anywhere but between the dual-paired eyes. Then he pulls out, with a wet gasp and a tight grip to your jaw.
“Switch.” They trade you again.
Hoodie’s cock back in your mouth, already slick from your spit, sliding in easier this time. His pace is gentler, but more thorough—praising you, petting your hair—making your eyes flutter every time he tries to reach the back of your throat. “Doing so good for us, little mouse.”
And then it’s back to Masky—rougher now, grabbing your face, thumb dragging your spit from your lips as he pushes in again, groaning through his teeth as your tongue swirls around the head. He’s quick, cockhead knocking against the roof of your mouth with each snap of his hips. “So fucking wet.”
Back to Hoodie. He lets you moan around him, and jerks just slightly when your tongue flicks the underside.
Back to Masky. He groans, “Gonna ruin your throat, sweetheart,” while his fingers dig into your mouth, tugging your jaw open.
And they keep going, keep snagging you by the hair and dragging you into a different cock before you can get settled. It’s dizzying, but you’ve never been so horny in your life. You can practically feel yourself dripping onto the carpet below, inner thighs slick with want.
Eventually, your face is a mess—lips red, eyes wet, throat raw—and both of them are panting. Their cocks are twitching, flushed, glistening with your spit and smears of precum.
“Fuck, I could come just like this,” Hoodie mutters, thumb brushing your lower lip.
Masky growls, holding your head back as your hands grip their hips, everyone taking a moment to breathe. He’s silent for a moment, eyes dark with something unspoken—hunger, jealousy, something sharper. His hand tightens in your hair, pulling your head back just a little, tilting your chin up so both cocks press against your lips.
Hoodie’s eyes darken, his fingers tangling in your hair on the other side, steadying you with a grip that says this is going to get messy.
They slide in together—slow at first—thick, hot, slick. Your mouth is so full it almost hurts, your tongue flattened beneath them both, trying to stretch and swallow, but there’s barely any room. They can barely get just past their heads, the first ridge of a vein on Masky’s length pressing into your lip.
You gag once—low, wet—but they hold you there, groaning above you.
“That’s it, baby. Take it all,” Masky growls.
“Good girl,” Hoodie whispers, hips twitching.
You feel them push deeper, their hands pulling your hair to keep you steady as they fill your mouth completely—every inch, no space left—you can’t even move your tongue. Your cheeks bulge out, saliva pooling, and your eyes water—but you won’t back down.
They start moving slowly at first, their cocks sliding in and out in tandem, driving you wild with the tightness and heat. You can taste them—salty, slick—mixed with your own spit, the feel of want and possession.
Their breaths are heavy, ragged, voices low and broken.
“Fuck, you’re so good,” Hoodie pants.
“Goddamn, how’ve we only just now done this?” Masky hisses.
You gag again, swallowing hard around them, desperate to keep up, desperate to show them just how much you want it.
The motel room fills with the sounds of wet mouths, shallow gasps, and the slick, messy rhythm of two cocks moving inside your mouth—one gripping, one teasing, both claiming. They rival the storm outside, the intensity not even close to the swirl of emotions in this room. The roar of the rain and thunder is nowhere near the roar in your skull.
Your jaw aches. Your throat flutters around them. And it’s so obscene the way they use you—not cruel, but so fucking filthy it makes your thighs press together, desperate for friction.
Masky’s voice is tight, groaning low as he watches your lips stretch around him. “Fuck, look at that. So fucking messy.”
Hoodie strokes your hair, his fingers trembling just a bit as you moan around both of them—the vibration making them both curse. “She’s drooling all over us,” he breathes. “Sweetheart, you want us that bad?”
You can’t speak—not with your mouth so full—but you whimper, the sound broken and hot. And they feel it. Your tongue flexes beneath them. Your throat squeezes.
Their hands grip tighter. And for a moment, they start fucking your mouth—not deep, not cruel—just slow, building rhythm, hips rocking forward in sync, stuffing you full again and again until your eyes roll back and your spit drips down your chin, slicking your neck.
You don’t want it to stop.
But suddenly, they pull out—quick, with a wet gasp and a groan, your mouth gaping open, lips red and glistening, a string of saliva still connecting you to them. You’re gasping, drooling, fucked-out and needy, and they just look down at you like they’ve never seen anything more beautiful.
“C’mere,” Masky rasps. “Up.”
Hoodie helps you to your feet—gentle now—kissing your spit-slick cheek, his breath shaking. “You did so fucking good,” he whispers. “But we’re not done.”
You barely have time to catch your breath before Masky’s hands are on your hips, gripping tight, pulling you toward the edge of the bed.
Hoodie’s already climbed up, sitting back against the headboard, his cock is heavy and red, leaking with need and smeared in your spit, twitching as he props himself up on one elbow, watching you with dark, hungry eyes.
You crawl forward on your knees, fingers grazing the soft fabric of the bedspread, then dragging up his thighs, and lower your head toward him.
Your lips part eagerly, tongue sliding out to taste the slick head of his cock. He lets out a low groan, hips lifting just enough to press into your mouth. Your lips open wide, tongue swirling, sliding over every inch of him. The salty taste of him fills you, hot and sharp. His fingers thread into your hair again, tugging lightly, steadying you. But the other wraps under your jaw, angling your head just right so he can press into the back of your throat. “So good, baby,” he murmurs, voice thick with need. “Just go nice and slow.”
You obey, your tongue flicking over the underside, swirling around the sensitive tip, your mouth stretching, working him deeper.
Behind you, you feel movement. Masky’s heavy hands settle on your hips, thumbs tracing lazy circles over your skin just above the curve of your ass.
He leans over you, body pressed atop your back, pulling your hips up to meet where his heavy cock sits against your tailbone. His breath is warm against your neck, voice low and rough. “Got you good and wet, huh?” he growls. “Look at you, taking him like you were made for this.”
One hand slides under your hip, fingers slipping between your legs, pressing firmly against your soaked folds still incredibly sensitive. You shiver, hips pressing down involuntarily, grinding against Masky’s hand. His grip tightens, thumb brushing your clit in slow, teasing circles.
Hoodie’s cock twitches in your mouth, hips rocking gently, setting a slow rhythm. You suck harder, deepening your mouth around him, feeling his pulse through your lips. His fingers tighten in your hair, nails scratching lightly at your scalp.You wrap a fist around the base of his cock, helping you as your eyes flutter closed, breath hitching around him.
Suddenly, Masky’s mouth presses to your shoulder, teeth grazing lightly, sending a sharp thrill through you.
“Make him cum, alright?” he hisses. “Let him spill all in that pretty mouth.”
You hum around Hoodie’s cock in response, tongue swirling, lashes fluttering as you feel Masky’s fingers press one last time against your clit, making you arch back just slightly. You can feel every nerve firing, every muscle tightening in eager anticipation.
He sits back, gripping your hips with bruising hands. Slowly, deliberately, Masky lines himself up. You jolt at the feeling, bulbous head smearing across your folds and collecting your arousal. You shiver, breath hitching around Hoodie’s cock as your back curves toward Masky’s. He chuckles low, and then begins to push in.
At first, just the thick head of him bobs inside—slow and steady—stretching you wide, the new, delicious pressure making your muscles clench and pulse around him. Your walls immediately grip around him, sucking him in the best they can. Your hips press back, desperate to take more, to swallow him whole.
Hoodie moans deep above you, fingers tightening in your hair as he feels your gasp and throat flutter around him.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Masky rasps behind you, his breath hot against your skin. His hands grip your hips firmly, steadying you as he pushes deeper, inch by inch, until he’s buried to the hilt inside your warmth.
The stretch, the fullness—your body’s desperate response sends a wave of heat rippling through you, mixing with the wet slickness from Hoodie’s cock in your mouth. You try to focus on your breathing, but it’s hard when Hoodie’s hips rock up, pushing deep and slow against your tongue, while Masky’s hands knead your hips, thumbs digging into your skin.
Your hands clutch the bedspread, nails scraping the thin fabric as Masky starts to move. His thrusts are slow at first, deliberate and testing—letting you adjust, letting you savor the sensation of being filled by him.
The motel room is alive with sounds—the wet slick of Hoodie’s cock sliding in and out of your mouth, your muffled moans and gasps, and Masky’s low growls as he fucks you from behind—all accompanied by the wonderful pounding of the storm.
You feel every inch of Masky’s cock inside you—thick, hot, and demanding—while Hoodie’s steady rhythm in your mouth keeps you dizzy with pleasure. Fucked absolutely out.
Masky leans down, pressing his chest to your back, one hand sliding under your body to cup your breast, fingers teasing your nipple. He kneads it roughly, making you arch against him, grinding back with every thrust.
Meanwhile, Hoodie’s hands tighten in your hair, pulling your head closer, making you take him deeper, your tongue swirling around the sensitive underside. You’ve almost got it all—almost.
The mingled sensations—the fullness behind, the heat in your mouth—makes your head spin.
Your breath comes in ragged gasps; your hips start to move with Masky’s rhythm, meeting him, pushing back harder. He growls, biting lightly at your neck, leaving mark after mark.
Hoodie moans deep, head leaning back to hit the headboard, voice thick with need. “You’re such a good girl for us,” he groans. “Taking us both so well.”
Your cheeks burn with the praise, your body trembling as Masky’s thrusts get harder, faster, hips slapping wetly against your skin. His hands roam greedily, one sliding between your legs to brush your clit, thumb circling as he fucks into you. Every thrust knocks against your g-spot, every tug of your hips angling your spine, forcing his cock deeper.
You cry out around Hoodie’s cock, your throat full and achingly stretched, saliva dripping down your chin. The waves of pleasure rise quickly now—your body screaming with need and overstimulation.
Masky’s grunts grow louder, his hips slamming against you, every thrust harder than the last. Hoodie’s breathing grows ragged; his fingers tighten in your hair as he holds you captive, your lips and tongue worshipping every inch of his cock inside you.
“Gonna come—” Hoodie gasps.
“Yeah,” Masky growls, voice rough and desperate.
Your body trembles, caught in the eye of their storm—filled, stretched, pleasured from both ends.
Your throat is sore, stretched perfectly around Hoodie’s cock as he shudders, his hips twitching deep inside your mouth. You feel the thick pulse, the hot flood spilling down your throat. Hoodie groans low, voice ragged, as his hips collapse down onto the bed, breath heavy and satisfied.
His cum floods into your throat, and you swallow in time with every twitch of his cock, nails digging into his skin. You pull back just enough to catch your breath, lips swollen and slick, your gaze flickering up to meet his. But before you can savor that moment, you feel Masky’s grip tighten on your hips, rough and insistent.
He growls, voice dark and possessive. “My turn.”
Without warning, he yanks you up by your hips, pulling you up onto your knees and back against his chest. Your legs wobble, but his hands hold you steady, strong. His cock is still buried deep inside you, thick and hard, and with a sudden force, he starts thrusting again—harder, faster—driving up into you with a hunger that steals your breath.
His arms wrap around your middle, holding you close as you bounce back to match every thrust. Your hands reach back, clutching his head and shoulders for support as you try to keep up with the sudden increase in pace.
Masky’s breath is hot against your neck, low and rough. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” he snarls. “You gonna cum all over this cock?”
Your body responds instantly—every nerve on fire, every muscle trembling as he pounds into you. You nod, eyes rolling into your head.
Hoodie watches with dark, hungry eyes, sitting up off the mattress to press against your front. He palms at your tits, rolling your nipples as they bounce with every knock of Masky’s cock.
He leans forward, pressing a wet, teasing kiss to your cheek, then down your jawline. “You’re so good for him,” Hoodie whispers. “So fucking perfect.”
He nips at your jaw, trailing his hand down your stomach and between your legs, pressing the pads of his fingers against your clit. He jerks the bud, and you cry out, wrapping an arm around Hoodie’s shoulders.
You pull him to you, chasing hips lips as you feel your cunt ache, feel the familiar coil in the pit of your stomach. Masky feels how you tighten around him, his pace stuttering. His breath grows ragged, voice thick with desperation as he pulls you tighter against him.
“I’m—fuck—gonna—” he gasps, hips stuttering.
“Yeah—please—inside—” You’re cumming so hard your vision cuts, eyes rolling so hard the two have to hold you steady when you go limp in their arms. Hoodie’s fingers slow, easing you through the waves of pleasure. Masky thrusts once, twice—until he buries in as deep as he can.
Masky presses his face into your shoulder, biting the skin as he cums into your cunt. You feel the spill, the thick ropes that paint your cervix and fill you so good.
The bed creaks, old springs shifting under the weight as bodies shift and breathing rattles lungs. You’re gripping both of them, a head pressed close to either shoulder, each kissing your skin.
“Fuck…” you huff, eyes struggling to stay open. You rest your chin against Hoodie’s shoulder, trying your best to catch your breath. “Feels good… So warm…”
Hoodie’s eyes darken with a dangerous hunger as he pushes his fingers further past your clit, feeling the spot where your entrance begins—stretched full of Masky. He hums, making your body jerk as he tries to press his fingers into the little space there is left.
“Brian—” you warn, nails digging into his shoulder. It doesn’t matter, he somehow manages to press the first knuckles of his middle fingers in, digits burying in the warmth of your cunt along with Masky’s cock. You all groan, Masky’s hips involuntarily jerking up at the sensation of Hoodie’s knuckles against his length.
“Brian, man. What—” Masky starts.
“Stay in,” Hoodie murmurs to Masky, voice low and urgent.
Masky stalls, searching his eyes, but growls his assent, hips still heavy inside you, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid to lose you.
Hoodie pulls his fingers out of your sensitive entrance, reaching around behind your legs to pull them out from under you. Masky catches your weight, holding you steady as Hoodie pulls your legs around his waist, locking your ankles behind his back. Hoodie grips under your ass, Masky holds under your thighs, your body sandwiched between them.
Hoodie shifts closer, positioning himself at your entrance. Your body tightens instinctively, every muscle clenching around Masky’s cock buried deep within you.
“Wait—Wait, hold on—”
“You can take it,” Masky kisses against your shoulder, continuously glancing between you and Hoodie. “You will.”
Slowly, carefully, Hoodie pushes forward.
At first, just the tip teases your wet, stretched folds. You gasp—a mix of pleasure and shock—as you feel yourself being stretched again, wider than you thought possible.
Masky’s hands grip your thighs tighter, steadying you as Hoodie tries to fight the resistance, bobbing the very tip of his cock against the tight ring of muscle burning from the attempted stretch.
“Shit—shit, shit shit—” Your breath hitches, eyes fluttering closed, mouth parting in a moan. You try your best to relax, try your damnest not to cry and whine with every burn that runs up your body.
Finally, one angle catches his head, your cunt opening up around his thick head. Hoodie’s cock slides past Masky’s inside you, the sensation unlike anything you’ve felt before. A delicious fullness floods your senses, your body opening to take them both, cunt absolutely screaming in sparks of pain and overwhelming ecstasy.
Masky shifts, thrusting just enough to give you room, hips grinding slowly, his voice a low growl against your skin. “Gonna ruin this pussy,” Masky rasps. “You’ll never be satisfied again if it’s not us.”
The three of you move as one tight, wet unit—Masky’s cock buried balls-deep, Hoodie’s cock sliding alongside him, pinning you open so completely it’s like you don’t even have a choice. The motel sheets are rumpled beneath you, their knees pressed hard into the thin mattress, arms braced against their shoulders for balance as Masky’s heavy thrusts rock you forward into Hoodie’s chest.
You can feel both of them inside you. Masky’s thick length fills your back walls, the girth taking up most of the room inside, causing you to lose your breath with every hardened thrust. Hoodie’s cock presses into your front, sliding quickly past Masky’s still-buried base, the dual pressure stretching you wider than you’ve ever felt before.
“C’mon, little mouse. Let us hear you.” Hoodie smiles.
Their hands grip your hips and thighs like anchors, thumbs digging into flesh, guiding your movements. Every time Masky pulls out slightly, Hoodie pushes in an extra half-inch, and vice versa, the two of them taking turns controlling your rhythm. The sensation is overwhelming—a deliciously torturous fullness that has your entire body humming with overstimulation.
Your senses explode. The slick heat of Masky’s cum still coating you from before mixes with fresh heat as you’re squeezed around both of them, a salt-tinged warmth that makes your toes curl. Their breaths are hot in your ear and on your neck—Masky’s rough growls vibrating against your spine, Hoodie’s low moans tickling your shoulder.
The sound of skin slapping skin echoes around the cramped room—Masky’s thighs smacking against your ass, Hoodie’s groaning as he presses flush into you.
With each thrust, Masky leans forward, chest against your back, caging you. His hands push your hips down, angling you so every stroke smacks your cervix with delicious force. You feel every ridge of his cock sliding deep inside, muscles clenching around him. “Hnn—gonna fu—shit—gonna fuck you stupid, sweet girl.”
Hoodie shifts his grip from your ass to slide to Masky’s hip, feeling his timing. He digs his nails into Masky’s skin, matching his pacing so he fucks you in perfect sync with Masky, making you cry out. “Feels so good, doesn’t it?” Hoodie pants. “Wanna do this forever.”
Your head falls forward onto Hoodie’s shoulder, lips parted in breathless moans that each of them feeds on. You can taste yourself on their skin—your slick mix of spit and cum—and it makes you ache for more. Every nerve ending feels alive, your clit crushed against Hoodie’s pelvis, Masky’s cock pulsating inside you like a living thing, and your brain goes fuzzy with the exquisite pain-pleasure of being stretched beyond your limits.
“It’s too much—fuck—I can’t—can’t keep up—”
They don’t let you rest.
Masky’s thrusts grow harder, sharper, forcing your hips up into Hoodie’s pelvis each time the head of his cock hits your g-spot. Hoodie, in turn, squeezes your ass so tight you can’t move, riding those jolting shocks from Masky’s cock, matching you thrust for thrust with a fierce, driving pace that threatens to break every bone in your body.
Your vision swims; sweat beads on your skin. You feel your orgasm building again—hot, desperate, unstoppable. They know your signs now. They’re built to adapt, to learn, to complete impossible tasks—so of course they know exactly what it feels like when you’re about to cum already. As the pressure peaks, Hoodie’s hand slaps down hard on your ass, and Masky’s fingers dig into your thighs in a gritted command, “Come for us.”
With a final, simultaneous plunge—Masky’s cock buried to the hilt, Hoodie’s thrusting floor-to-ceiling—you break.
“Fuck!”
Your toes curl, your back arches, and a guttural cry tears from your throat as wave after wave of orgasm ripples through you. Your body clenches so fiercely around both of them that it drives them over the edge, too.
Masky roars, releasing inside you in long, trembling spurts, his cock pulsing deep within. Hoodie groans your name, spilling his hot cum as he holds you tight, his fingers still gripping your ass as he comes.
Their combined release floods you, warmth coating your insides as the tremors of your orgasm shake your limbs. For a long moment, the three of you move together in trembling grinds—skin gleaming with sweat, breaths ragged and mingling as you ride out every inch of pleasure, tight cunt milking every drop they’ve got.
Finally, Masky pulls back, still buried inside you, and Hoodie slides out, collapsing under you on the bed. You fall forward, landing on top of Hoodie, Masky following behind.
They sandwich you, sweat-soaked bodies pressed close as Masky musters the last of his strength to slip out of your spent cunt, sending cum spilling from your folds and onto the bedsheets below.
The room smells like sex and sweat and crappy motel soap.
You’re sprawled across Hoodie, boneless and dazed, your body still trembling from the storm they dragged you through. The thin, scratchy sheet is tangled around your legs. The pillows are damp and askew. The red light from the neon sign outside bleeds in through the blinds, painting everything in a low crimson haze.
Everyone rolls off each other, taking up the entirety of what little space there is of the matters.
You’re caught in the middle, surrounded by the weight of their bodies, the heat of their skin, and the press of breath that slows with every minute on either side of you.
Masky’s against you, chest to your back, arm slung lazily around your waist. His hand is splayed across your stomach, fingers twitching occasionally, as if he’s trying his best to go back to staying still. His breath brushes your shoulder in soft exhales, nose buried in the crook of your neck.
In front of you, Hoodie lies on his back, one hand lazily stroking your arm, eyes half-lidded and dark with something softer than before. He’s flushed, chest rising and falling slow, mouth slightly parted. There’s a sheen of sweat still clinging to his skin, his lashes damp from the heat and friction of everything that just happened.
No one speaks for a long while. Just breathing. Just silence. The weight of your shared pleasure settling in the small, hazy air of the motel room.
Your body aches in every place they touched. You’re full, sore, and you feel like your soul’s been picked clean—but not in a bad way. It’s grounding. It feels good, like you’ve finally unwound all the tension in your psyche.
Eventually, Hoodie shifts, his knuckles brushing your cheek. He doesn’t say anything, but the touch is soft, thoughtful.
Masky murmurs into your shoulder, his voice scratchy and low. “You good?”
You nod, barely, too tired to speak yet. But your hand finds his on your stomach and laces your fingers through his, gently squeezing.
Hoodie lets out a breath—somewhere between a sigh and a huff of amusement. “Didn’t think you’d actually let us go that far.”
You blink slowly, managing a tired little smirk. “Didn’t think you had it in you.”
Hoodie chuckles under his breath, the sound light, pulling you a little closer with the crook of his arm. You nuzzle into the curve of his shoulder, lips brushing over the faint scrape of stubble on his jaw.
“You can’t call dibs on her after we just shared her.”
You laugh under your breath, soft and barely there. Masky’s grip tightens just a little at your waist in response.
“You okay?” Hoodie asks this time, a little more serious.
You nod again. “Yeah. Just… full.”
Both of them laugh, low and lazy and quiet, and you let your eyes flutter shut as they sit up.
They don’t say a word.
They just move—Masky sliding down your body to one side, Hoodie shifting to the other—and before you can protest, both their heads dip low.
Masky begins at your hip crease, tongue tracing slow, firm licks along your soaked skin, gathering every last drop of cum that smears across your skin. His free hand cups your thigh, pressing you open for him, while his other hand snakes between your legs to steady you. Each broad stroke of his tongue pulls your body taut with sensitivity, the warmth of his mouth searing against your skin.
Hoodie, mirrored on the opposite side, leans in beneath your belly, tongue flicking up in short, quick passes at your lower lips—then sliding deeper into your soaked center. He laps gently, methodically, collecting the sweetness you left behind. His breath hovers warm across your thigh as he cleans with expert devotion, making sure no spot is missed.
They work effortlessly.
Every few inches of Masky’s slow, worshipful licks are matched by Hoodie’s precise, teasing sweeps. You feel the wet press of their tongues meet at the center, swallowing and savouring you, their mouths hot and insistent.
Masky’s tongue drags a slow stripe from your entrance up to your clit, then circles it, flattening and pressing until you arch your back, legs tensing around both of them. Hoodie’s tongue dives in synchrony, curling just right to find every crevice, every tremble point. You grab the bedsheets, tugging and pulling with every sharp roll of the muscles.
Their hands aren’t idle either. Masky’s fingertips brush delicate arcs along your inner thighs, glide up to tease your sensitive folds; Hoodie’s thumb brushes gentle, reassuring circles over your hip bone as he leans in to work the tip of his tongue against your clit again.
You moan—soft, breathy, nearly pained with relief and pleasure—as they feed on you, cleaning you with their mouths like they’re righting some cosmic wrong. The red neon light flickers in the curtains, painting their faces in shadow and warmth, and you’re suspended between their ministrations, heart pounding.
Finally, when every drop is gone, they lift their heads together, lips glistening, eyes dark with need and something softer—care, devotion, worship. Masky presses a slow, wet kiss to your inner thigh; Hoodie brushes your stomach with his nose, his breath feather-light.
They slide back up—Masky pressing a gentle kiss behind your ear, Hoodie trailing one across your collarbone. Their hands settle on your hips and shoulders, cradling you in a triangle of warmth and quiet satisfaction.
You’re nestled between them again, chest still rising in unsteady waves as the weight of their attention and afterglow begins to soften into something cozy, close. The scratchy motel sheet is pulled half-heartedly over your legs, but Hoodie reaches to tug the heavy comforter up higher, draping it over all three of you. You instinctively scoot closer to the body heat pressing into you from both sides. The heater is still broken, the electricity is still shot—but you’re incredibly warm despite it.
Masky’s arm is hooked under your neck, fingers resting lightly on your shoulder. Hoodie’s hand is against your hip, thumb rubbing slow circles into your bare skin. Their bodies bracket you like armor, all strong limbs and quiet breath.
There’s a quiet moment—just the loud thrum of the rain in the background and the distant hum of neon through the window.
Then you tilt your chin up toward Hoodie and nudge Masky’s jaw with your nose. “C’mere,” you whisper, voice still low and sleep-thick.
They don’t hesitate. Hoodie leans in first, kissing you slow and unhurried, his lips soft and warm, the kind of kiss that isn’t asking for more—it’s just being. A little messy, from how relaxed he is, but sweet.
When you break apart, Masky is already there, nudging Hoodie aside with a little grunt like he’s annoyed he had to wait. His kiss is rougher, more teeth, more pressure—but not because he’s impatient. It’s just him. And you like that.
They both kiss you again—switching off without a word—until you’re dazed, lazy, flushed all over again from nothing but mouth and hands and heat.
You hum against Masky’s lips as he kisses you one last time, then break away with a smug little grin. “You know…” you murmur, glancing between them. “You two should kiss again.”
“Fuck off,” Masky mutters, shifting on the mattress. “Not gonna do that just ‘cause you get off on it.”
“Yeah,” Hoodie echoes, dry but amused, “not a circus act for you.”
You pout playfully, dramatically cuddling into Hoodie’s chest like you’re wounded. “Rude,” you mumble. “After you did unspeakable things to me, too.”
Masky snorts. “Yeah, more like you begged us to, sweetheart.”
But even as he says it, you catch the glance he and Hoodie share—a flicker of tension, a spark of something under the surface. A challenge.
And then Hoodie shrugs. “Fine.” He grabs Masky by the jaw, jerks him forward, and kisses him across you.
It’s not graceful. It’s not slow, or romantic. It’s messy and firm and unexpected—Hoodie’s hand in Masky’s hair, their mouths pressed together hard enough to bruise. Masky makes a surprised sound, fists clenching in the sheets, but he doesn’t pull away. If anything, he leans in.
The kiss breaks after a few seconds—both of them pulling back just a little, eyes locking for one tense, unreadable moment.
“Happy now?” Masky mutters, breath warm and a little shaken.
You beam. “So happy.”
They groan in unison—so done with you—but they don’t move away. The three of you settle again, tangled under the blanket, skin against skin, quiet and warm. Hoodie lets out a soft breath, his fingers threading lazily through yours. Masky shifts until his nose brushes your shoulder.
And it’s not another minute before your breathing slows, eyes fluttering shut whether you’d like them to or not. It’s just so warm, and safe, and…
── .✦
The first thing you notice is the sharp click—the unmistakable hum of power rushing back through the motel’s ancient wiring.
Lights flicker on, harsh and sudden, cutting through the red glow of the neon sign outside. The storm has passed. Outside, rain still trickles down the windowpanes, gentle now, like a quiet exhale after a violent scream.
You stir slowly, eyelids fluttering open to find Masky’s warm chest pressed against your back, Hoodie’s arms wrapped loosely around your waist. All three of you are tangled, skin slick with the aftermath of last night’s messy heat. Your muscles ache, sore from every touch, every thrust—but that ache feels good, grounding.
You reach out, fingers trailing softly over Masky’s shoulder, then nudge Hoodie’s arm. Their eyes blink open, heavy-lidded and slow, matching your own sleepy haze.
Hoodie’s lips twitch into a tired smile. “Figured. I heard it snap back a few minutes ago.”
You press a kiss into Hoodie’s shoulder, then turn to face Masky, your hand resting on his chest. “Feels like… we should get up.”
Masky groans, pulling you closer. “Five more minutes.”
You shake your head with a soft laugh, the warmth of their bodies still wrapping around you like a cocoon. “Nope. We gotta move before motel staff starts getting suspicious.”
Hoodie shifts, fingers brushing your ribs, his eyes dark and sleepy but amused. “Final shower before the road?”
You nod. “Yeah. Warm water. Then hit the road and figure out why Toby didn’t meet us.”
Masky lets out a slow breath, reluctantly peeling away from you. Hoodie follows, helping you all untangle from the sheets and each other, muscles stiff but spirits gentle.
Together, you move toward the bathroom, the air cool against your heated skin, the scent of rain still lingering in the cracked-open window. The sound of water soon fills the room—steady, soothing—and you lean against each other, sharing quiet moments of comfort before the world outside calls you back to motion.
The morning was cool but the shower was blistering hot—steam clouded the cracked mirror, dripping down the grimy tiles like sweat. You shuffled in first, hauling the wrinkled plastic curtain closed, the water sputtering uncertainly before finally warming up.
The spray hit you in jagged pulses, barely enough to drown the sweat and grime from the night. You grabbed your clothes from the grimy floor and hung them on the rusted rack, wincing as the cold brushed your skin.
Then, the bathroom door creaked open.
“Hoodie?” Masky’s voice echoed in the tight space. “You getting in or what?”
Hoodie grinned, stepping into the narrow space, brushing damp hair from his eyes. “Hell yeah. This place might be a shithole, but a hot shower’s a hot shower.”
You laughed, leaning back against the cool tiles as Hoodie slipped in beside you. Masky pressed in from the doorway, careful to avoid knocking over the lone soap bar.
The three of you shuffled under the tiny showerhead, water washing away the grime and the tension. The cramped space forced your bodies close, and though it was uncomfortably tight, it was also… familiar.
“Man,” Hoodie said, voice muffled by the water. “You ever crave something stupid after missions? Like, I dunno—pancakes? With syrup? Maybe some crispy bacon?”
Masky chuckled. “Pancakes sound nice. But all I want is a coffee.”
You smirked. “I’d kill for a greasy diner breakfast right now. Coffee that’s strong enough to wake the dead. Eggs over easy. Hell, I’d even take burnt toast.”
“Burnt toast?” Hoodie teased. “You’re picky.”
“Not when it comes to food. I’m starving.”
The water splashed harder as Masky shifted, nudging you gently. “We’ll get there,” he promised. “Back at the mansion. Full kitchen, good food, and maybe even a bed that doesn’t squeak.”
The warmth seeped into your bones, but reality crept back in. The storm had passed, but you still had to get out.
You rinsed off quickly, the water cooler than before, and dried off with the thin motel towel. Masky and Hoodie did the same, the cramped bathroom turning into a mess of wet clothes and half-stifled laughter.
Back in the room, you grabbed your packs, and Hoodie yanked open the dresser. With a grunt, the three of you shifted the heavy, scratched piece of furniture off the door—praying that nobody heard the loud shuffling.
“Think they’ll lose their shit when they see this place?” you asked, peeking over your shoulder to see the absolute disarray you’re leaving it in.
“Doubt it,” Masky shrugged. “They probably get worse than this.”
You peeked out the grimy window. The rain had slowed to a drizzle, and the lot was nearly empty.
“Alright,” Hoodie said, voice low. “Let’s move before someone sees us.”
You crept out the door, puddles of water and broken tree limbs littering the lot. Outside, the cold air hit you all at once, bracing and sharp. The truck was waiting, just like you left it—windows streaked with rain, engine cool but ready.
You climbed in, each of you wiping the last drops of water from your faces. Hoodie turned the keys, the engine sputtering to life, before you peeled out of the parking lot. Music was turned up, the heater was turned high, and you all relaxed back into your familiar spots.
Masky’s hand dipped into the glove compartment with that familiar, casual ease—the one that made you forget just how much he needed the habit. His fingers closed around a crumpled pack of cigarettes, the familiar crinkle of cellophane breaking the silence. He pulled one free, flicked the lighter from his pocket, and inhaled deep.
Passing the cigarette over, you caught it next—fingers brushing against his briefly as you took a slow drag, the smoke filling your lungs and settling the restless ache that lingered after the night. Hoodie leaned in, grabbing it carefully, his eyes half-lidded in that hazy, just-woken-up way.
Just then, your phone buzzed—buried deep in the bottom of your pack, vibrating insistently. It was a burner, one used only to communicate between proxies. You cursed softly, fumbling to unzip the heavy canvas and dig through the clutter.
“Shit,” you muttered, finally pulling it free. The screen flashed with Toby’s name.
“Where the h-hell have you be-been?” his voice was sharp, frantic.
You glanced up at Masky and Hoodie, who had gone quiet, exchanging looks loaded with equal parts exhaustion and irritation.
You answered, voice low, “We got caught in the storm. Couldn’t get back to the mansion.”
Toby’s rant came fast and furious through the speaker. “You should’ve c-come back. The meeting point was h-hours ago. I never met you gu-guys cause boss told me to come back. Not wo-worth getting caught in a storm. St-Staying out like that? Stupid.”
The three of you shared a glance—silent, tired, and pisses beyond compare knowing that while the three of you were forced into a shitty motel to stay safe, Toby was lounging at the mansion with his feet kicked up.
You cut the call, the line going dead with a quick flick of your thumb. You tossed the phone back in the bag with a groan.
Masky cracked a crooked grin, shaking his head. “Screw it. After last night? A diner stop is worth it.”
Hoodie nodded, the cigarette between his fingers almost forgotten as he looked out the window. “Yeah. Pancakes, bacon, coffee… Toby can kiss my ass.”
You smirked, leaning back against the seat, the morning sun finally breaking through the clouds as the truck rolled down the highway. The energy stirred, a silent thrum between the three of you that was undeniable now, one that you didn’t even have to speak on to know.
Sleeping in your own bed is a luxury, no doubt.
But when two pairs of strong hands keep you warm, hold you close, and make you feel like the cold isn't going to kill you.
Maybe sharing one isn’t so bad.
Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos are appreciated!
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